Fragile Things (Folkestone Sins Book 1) Read online

  Flipping the letter over, I stare at the California address and phone number written on the back. Somehow I don't even notice the tears streaming down my face until they leave tiny wet dimples on the paper clutched in my fingers.

  Giving in to the quiet sobs struggling to break free, I let the letter flutter to the floor as I wrap my arms around myself. As I try to calm my racing heart, one question echoes on repeat through my brain: I have an aunt?

  After a mostly sleepless night spent questioning pretty much my entire existence, I make swift work of the three-block walk to The Juneberry the next morning. Pulling open the heavy back door of the popular local diner and stowing my purse in the tiny break room, I tie on my clean apron and give Sally a kiss on her round, flushed cheek as I walk through the kitchen.

  The morning shift is one of my favorites. Busy, but not crazy, with most of the crowd consisting of blue-haired regulars and the occasional group of college kids looking to nurse their hangovers with a tasty, greasy breakfast.

  When I found my way to Baldwinsville after running from the group home, it seemed like the perfect place to become invisible. Small enough to not be on any CPS radar, and just large enough to blend in. Sally, the tiny blonde diner-owning dynamo, took pity on my not quite sixteen-year-old self and gave me a job even though I was underage. A few months of washing dishes later, I graduated to waitressing.

  People here know me as Stella, though I still use Ellis as my last name. I couldn’t risk using my full birth name on the off chance my mother had been right about me being in danger, and I couldn’t use the name she raised me with in case CPS was looking for me. So I settled on a combination of the two. An acquaintance with somewhat less than legit ties got me set up with a passable ID so I could at least open a bank account and register for online high school classes.

  It’s been just over two years now. Long enough for the old-fashioned Formica tables, red leather booths, and shiny chrome accents to seem cozy rather than corny, and for me to not be startled every time the bells over the entrance door cheerily announce a customer's coming or going.

  The morning passes in a blur of friendly smiles and stacks of pancakes. Normally, I would consider it a successful start to the day. Still, the feeling that something isn't quite right is unshakable. Sort of like everything is ever so slightly out of focus or not quite the right color. Hoping it might just be a residual effect from last night's crappy sleep, I pull together a scrambled egg sandwich with some leftover bacon.

  "Sal! I'm on break! Be back in fifteen!" I shout to be heard over silverware clattering against plates and the patchwork of conversation. Catching my eye from behind the counter, she gives me an understanding wink, knowing full well where I’m going.

  Folding the sandwich into a square of paper towel, I leave out the back door. Mr. Ambrose, one of the older homeless men who rests his head back here in the alley each night, is waiting patiently for me. Bringing him something from the kitchen around the same time each day has become our routine. Leaning against the sun-warmed red bricks along the side of the building, he gratefully accepts his lunch and takes a bite, chewing thoughtfully.

  "Why you lookin’ so shook, girl?” he asks with his mouth full. I shrug one shoulder and smile ruefully.

  "Didn't sleep well last night. A strange delivery had my mind working overtime." Lowering my eyes, I realize my brain is once again stewing over the questions raised by the beautiful wooden box and its unexpected contents. A few minutes of silence pass, and I can feel Mr. Ambrose staring at me. I lift my eyes to meet his piercing gaze.

  "Girl, when somethin’ gets that stuck in your craw, only one way to stop the sting. You gotta pull it out quick. These things gotta be faced. Stared at, straight in the eye, in the full light of day." With that, he tips his ragged plaid cap to me in thanks for his lunch and sets off down the alley, leaving me staring after him shaking my head.

  Somehow his words hit home with me. I can’t ignore that letter any more than I could an elephant on a trapeze. Something in me craves answers and connection more than it’s afraid of them. With a sigh and increasingly sweaty palms, I venture back inside to tell Sally I'm going to need some time off.

  Chapter Two

  "Fuckity, fuck fuck fuck." I know I must seem like a crazy person muttering profanity to myself, but right now, I couldn’t care less. My head is pounding, and my anxiety is threatening to choke me outright.

  It took me a full day, and at least thirty-two failed attempts before I convinced myself to call the number on the card and ask the agency to book the flight across the country. It took another half a day to force my fingers to text my arrival information to the number on the back of The Damn Box Letter. That's what I've started referring to it as—The Damn Box Letter. The thing that turned my whole life upside down. Again. My phone pinged back at me less than a minute later.

  I’M SO HAPPY. SAFE TRAVELS. SEE YOU SOON.

  Let me tell you, those three short sentences carried more weight than any others I’d ever read. We're talking leaden, bloated, sink to the bottom of the ocean kind of weight.

  I’m headed to a town called Folkestone, California. Just north of San Francisco and just west of What the Fuck Was I Thinking. Having never left the confines of New York State, even figuring out what to take with me became a chore of comedic proportions.

  To add insult to injury, I have a fear of flying I knew nothing about until now. By fear, I mean terror, and by terror, I mean the pants-shitting kind. The flight attendant had to practically drag me to my seat. After blindly managing to strap myself in, I offered up hastily worded prayers to every deity I could think of. Almost immediately, my leg developed a nervous tick all on its own. About an hour into the flight, my three-drinks-in seatmate leaned his heavily bearded, man-bun self over to me.

  "Hey there, little girl, maybe you should stop with the leg thing. Don't want the other passengers thinking you know something about the plane that they don't," he slurred at me, winking sloppily and making small explosion sounds under his breath like a giant, hairy, seven-year-old.

  "Hey, maybe you should mind your own fucking business and eat a dick," I shot back at him, flashing the sweetest, most saccharine smile I could manage while continuing to grit my teeth in terror. That seemed to dissuade him from any further commentary, and my asinine leg continued its shaking unchecked for the rest of the flight.

  Now, as we make our descent into San Francisco International Airport, along with my insane muttering and shaky leg, my stomach is clenching, threatening to empty its contents into the lap of the asshole sitting beside me. Once the plane rolls to a full stop, I’m thinking the same flight attendant who dragged me onto the plane is going to need to carry me off of it, since all my bones feel like they've just turned to goo.

  Fuck you, fear. This girl’s got no time for you today.

  Channeling my inner badass, I shove past my crushing anxiety and miraculously pull my shit together enough to exit the plane under my own steam.

  Once in the terminal, I follow the rest of the herd to baggage claim to collect the hard-shell black suitcase Sally insisted I borrow. The screen above the carousel shows me I have some time to kill before the luggage from my flight is available. Scanning my surroundings for the nearest restroom, I spot one mostly hidden in a small alcove across the concourse. As I shift my weight from foot to foot, debating whether I should wait until I have my luggage or not, my frayed nerves really start to drive me nuts, and I know I need to find some chill fast.

  Historically speaking, there are only two things that successfully relax me when I’m this wound up, and since I’m standing alone in the middle of a crowded airport, I opt for the less naked choice. Pulling out my phone, I shove my earbuds in, cranking up The Anix's 'Renegade’ and letting the music flow through me like a balm as I dash for the ladies' room. When I find it empty, my bladder quivers in thanks.

  This song is one of my favorites. I half sing, half hum along as I do my business and wash my hands, sto
pping to run my cool, wet fingers across the back of my neck before drying them. Tossing the wadded up paper towel into the trash can on my way out, I yank open the restroom door and walk face-first into a solid male chest. Strong hands reach out to steady my shoulders, and I’m instantly enveloped by the enticing scent of soft sandalwood and warm sunshine.

  Quickly yanking out my earbuds, my brain registers that I’m eye-level with the black Vans logo emblazoned across the front of a well-fitting, snug, dark gray T-shirt. I’m afraid to look up, suddenly hyper aware of how close we’re standing to each other. He must sense my reaction to his proximity because a small but profoundly sexy chuckle rumbles out of him. Slowly raking my gaze up his nicely defined chest, I stop to admire the gloriously intricate black and gray tattoo winding its way up his right arm, the way his shirt emphasizes his broad shoulders, and the faint throb of his pulse in the hollow of his throat.

  Sighing softly, I lift my eyes further. A startlingly handsome face stares appreciatively down at me with cocky amusement. He’s young, probably eighteen or nineteen, but they sure don’t grow guys like this where I’m from. The corner of his lips tuck up in a little sideways grin, and his dark blue eyes gleam with mischief.

  Well, shit. As they say in the movies, ‘Mischief is my middle name.’

  I don’t know this guy from Adam, but then again, I don’t know anybody here, so if there was ever a time to make out with a smokin’ hot stranger, now would be it. That look in his eyes is a challenge if I’ve ever seen one, and I’m not one to walk away from a challenge, especially one that looks and smells this good. Raising slowly onto my tiptoes, I run the tip of my nose up the side of his warm, tanned throat while sliding my hands up his firm chest. I’m rewarded with his sharp intake of breath that tells me he wasn’t expecting me to play along.

  Grinning wickedly at my small victory, I graze my teeth along his sculpted jawline. His hands tightly squeeze my shoulders before one leaves its perch to trace lazily down my spine, and the other fists into the back of my long, glossy black hair. Pulling softly to force my chin up, it feels like he stares directly into my soul as he thoughtfully runs his tongue across his very kissable bottom lip. At that moment, I catch the slight glint of the stud piercing his tongue.

  Good lord, I’m all in.

  Feeling me strain lightly against the fist in my hair, he releases just enough for me to reach up and capture that bottom lip between my teeth before letting it slowly slide free.

  The game is real now, and I’ve just upped the ante.

  Growling low in his throat, he turns and flattens me up against the alcove wall, the hardness growing between his legs pressing against my hip. Wrapping his beautifully tattooed arm around my waist, he pulls me more tightly to him, tracing the seam of my lips with his velvet tongue before engulfing me in the hottest, most panty-melting kiss I have ever experienced.

  Unfortunately, before I even have time to catch my breath, let alone fully enjoy the warmth of his lips, his back pocket starts to vibrate. He pulls away slightly, swearing under his breath as he reaches for his phone.

  Startled back to reality, my face flushes faintly pink. I flash a cheeky grin before quickly disentangling myself from the gorgeous stranger’s embrace and dart out of the alcove, heading toward the luggage carousel and not looking back.

  Wow.

  Wow wow.

  That was intense and incredible and insane. I can’t believe I was just brazen enough to make out with a total stranger. Realizing now that the entire thing happened without a word, I find myself wondering what his voice sounds like. A laugh tumbles out as I notice my nerves aren’t quite as taut as they were.

  Sex and music, my go-to magic anxiety relievers; thanks for your assistance, random hottie.

  Absently nibbling on the inside of my cheek and deep in thought, I almost miss seeing my suitcase go by, the hot pink ribbon tied to the handle fluttering at me in greeting. My feet are moving before my brain fully engages, and I lunge forward, reaching awkwardly to snatch for my bag. My still-unsteady knees betray me, and I stumble into another passenger waiting for his own luggage. Throwing my arm out to catch myself before I fall over, my palm collides with a familiar chest, and his warm, steady grip closes around my wrist. Snatching my hand away without looking at his face, I slip through the crowd and move closer to the belt, managing to grab my bag on its second pass and feeling his eyes on me as I take off at a run.

  Utterly overwhelmed by the past seventy-two hours and my little erotic interlude, I slow down once I’m out of his eyeline. Moving mindlessly with the crowd toward the arrivals waiting area, the echo of his tantalizing scent floats in the back of my mind.

  The churning in my stomach starts up again in full force, though, as I scan the nameless faces in front of me. It hits me that I have no idea who I'm looking for.

  None.

  Zero.

  Shit.

  Just as I'm about to turn tail and find the quickest and cheapest way back to New York, a small white card held in a masculine but well-manicured hand catches my eye. Miss Bradleigh is written neatly on it in fine black marker. Putting away my phone, I take in the perfectly tailored black suit and the careful smile of the older man who belongs to the hand. By sheer force of will, I convince myself to move close enough for me to speak and be heard over the noise of loved ones greeting each other with familiarity and excitement.

  "Uhm, hi. I'm Stella Bradleigh?" My voice breaks on the taste of the unfamiliar surname in my mouth, and the statement comes out sounding like a squeaky question.

  "Good afternoon, Miss Bradleigh. I trust your flight was pleasant? The car is out front. Please follow me." His voice sounds just like he looks: efficient, smooth, and polished. Before I can reply—or even blink, really—he's already pried the suitcase handle out of my grip and is gliding his way swiftly through the massive number of people between us and the automatic doors leading outside. Since a substantial amount of my worldly possessions are crammed into that suitcase he's so effortlessly carrying, I get my ass moving in his direction. Sprinting, I finally manage to catch up with him just as the exit doors are sliding open. He must have forty years on me, yet I'm the winded one!

  "Pretty spry for an old dude, huh?" I joke, my hands on my hips as I chuff and wheeze like an emphysemic buffalo, waiting for my lungs to re-inflate.

  "Yes, Miss, spry indeed," he answers with a barely repressed grin. He takes my elbow gently and steers me toward the rear passenger side door of the glossy midnight blue Cadillac XTS.

  After planting me in the backseat and tucking my bag neatly into the trunk of the car, Mr. Spry Fancy-pants slips behind the wheel and we're on our way. We pull smoothly into the line of vehicles leaving the airport heading north, and I keep my eyes trained on the water of the San Francisco Bay on my right, wondering for the zillionth time if I’ve made a massive mistake.

  As we cross onto the island and drive past a discreet sign for the Folkestone Yacht Club, I start to pay more attention to the small, exclusive town around us. The coastline still runs beside the car on one side, but now stunningly long driveways wind their way lazily up the other side to large houses perched on the hillside and nestled among majestic trees. My eyes devour the beauty of the landscape surrounding us, marveling at the dappled afternoon sunlight tracing lacy patterns over the streets.

  "Spry, I'm a thousand percent sure this is some nasty joke, and I'm an idiot for falling for it,” I manage to choke out around the lump of tears caught in my throat.

  Tears now? What the hell? This whole situation is seriously fucking with my juju.

  I don’t cry over sentimental, pretty things. In fact, I don’t cry much at all anymore. Catching my eyes in the rear-view mirror, the driver flashes me a small, reassuring smile.

  "Don't worry, Miss Bradleigh. You'll do just fine." I don't remotely believe him, but there's no time to delve into the full breadth of my insecurities as we turn into a partially obscured driveway, and a pair of massive iron gates silently swin
g open. The house ahead comes into full view, and my throat tightens further at the grand estate before me.

  As we roll to a gentle stop, I notice the lone willowy figure waiting in the wide welcoming entryway. Waiting, I assume, for me.

  Chapter Three

  Frozen in the backseat, I stare through the tinted side window in wide-eyed disbelief at the woman on the porch as panic starts to crawl across my skin with little spidery feet. Spry comes around to open my door, and when I make no move to leave the relative safety of the backseat, he reaches for my hand.

  “I can’t,” I whisper, silently pleading with him to take me back to the airport, back to the hollow but relatively safe existence I knew.

  He gently tugs me out of the car and gives my trembling fingers a small squeeze before moving to retrieve my bag. I stand motionless beside the car with my head lowered and force myself to remember how to breathe. The trunk closes with a soft click, and my head lifts in time to see my borrowed suitcase disappear into the house. Slowly, I follow it, making my way up the steps with my heart thudding in time with each footfall until I stand, pale and shaking, face-to-face with a ghost.

  "Mom?" The word slips from my lips before I realize I've said anything. The woman shakes her head slightly in response, a deep sadness somehow apparent in that small movement.

  The closer I look, the more the slight differences between them become clear. This woman is softer than I remember my mother being. Time and circumstance haven't been nearly as hard on her. The honey streaks in her beechnut hair add a warmth and depth that my mother could never have afforded, and though her eyes are the same shade of sea glass blue, the lines that frame them seem to be from laughter rather than tears.

  Staring into those eyes, my whole body is wracked with violent tremors as the stress of the past couple of days finally catches up with me. Harsh, gasping sobs escape my lips, and I double over as my stomach makes good on the earlier threat of emptying its contents. The touch of a soft hand on my back, both familiar and unknown, pushes me entirely over the edge, and I collapse in an undignified puddle at her feet.