True Divide by Liora Blake Page B

However, as evidenced by the handful of local guys who pass our table and exchange weird urban-esque finger-snapping handshakes with him, the man is one of us now, egg whites and all.
    Moriah, the grande-dame owner of Deaton’s, even makes a point of coming over to ask Trevor if he wants one of her homemade pecan pies again this year. That’s basically the Good Housekeeping seal of approval around here, because Moriah is ninety-two years old and comes out of her illustrious pie-making retirement once a year. She makes ten of the highly coveted delights for Thanksgiving, and then handpicks the lucky recipients. It’s Crowell’s version of holding a Wonka-style golden ticket. I’ve lived here my whole life and never been fortunate enough to get one.
    Trevor behaves exactly as he knows he should. Looks surprised and sheepishly bowled over by the offer, then answers with a resounding yes as swiftly and enthusiastically as possible. Moriah pats him on the shoulder and toddles off, and I have to restrain the urge to stomp my foot and stand up to remind everyone, loudly, that I was born here.
    After he finishes his diet plate, Trevor returns to his phone, doing all of the poking and typing he always is. Without looking up from the face, he reaches out his hand toward Kate and strokes it down the length of her hair.
    â€œKatie, did you make a list of the things you want brought out here from the Malibu house?”
    Having just shoved an unladylike forkful of pancakes in her mouth, Kate chews and swallows with a nod. “Yup, I already emailed it to Devon. She called and gave me some crap about wanting so many books sent back here, but she said she found everything and had it boxed up.”
    Trevor looks up to speak. “I was originally going to have everything shipped, but I was thinking about paying Jake to fly it out here right after Thanksgiving. Might be just as easy. That way we don’t have to worry about some shipping company fucking anything up in transit.”
    My eyes shoot up immediately and I find Trevor staring, his eyebrows slightly raised as if he was waiting to see my reaction. Oh God. Jake, here in Crowell again. Able to profess and demonstrate his affection for my ass in person. The idea sounds perfect and panic-inducing. I pick up my fork again. Another bite of syrup-drenched goodness will give me something less tricky to focus on.
    Kate gives a slow exhale. “Jake Holt. How nuts is that, Lacey? I didn’t even remember him until I really thought about it. The town misfit makes a triumphant return. On a Learjet. It’s kind of awesome, right? Trevor said Jake mentioned seeing you at the hospital. You guys catch up? I ask this despite knowing that the idea of you two associating with each other back in the day is an unlikely concept.”
    I wave my fork aimlessly in the air to feign nonchalance and a drip of syrup lands on my other forearm when I do. “I saw him at Lonigan’s.”
    Kate lets out an odd-sounding sigh and snort. “Well, that boy’s definitely been eating his Wheaties. I just remember Doc Martens and a lip ring—or maybe it was an eyebrow ring. Whatever. But now, he’s certainly all grown-up.” She emphasizes the last three words and then chuckles softly.
    Trevor takes a side-glance Kate’s way and waits for her to see it, but she simply shoves another mouthful of pancakes in. When he cranes his neck to emphasize it, she finally notices.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI’m sitting right here, woman. As you lick syrup off your lips talking about Jake like you want to pour syrup on him.”
    Kate rolls her eyes, then leans forward and continues talking.
    â€œAnyway, as I was saying, Jake Holt all grown-up and wanting to catch up with the prom queen. Please tell me that Dusty was at Lonigan’s when all this went down.” Trevor shakes his head but continues to tap away on his phone.
    All I want to do at this moment is