“Not until the holidays. Will you be there for Thanksgiving?”
“I haven’t made plans yet. I think Nell usually makes a holiday dinner.”
Patrick gives me a look that’s too sharp, too perceptive.
Jesus. Can he tell that something isn’t right? Am I that transparent?
“Lindsey and Tom were asking if you’d be in town.” He takes out his car keys. “Said they haven’t seen you since you dropped off the radar.”
Lindsey Harris has been one of my closest friends for fifteen years. She and her husband Tom were waiting at the airport when I landed on US soil for the first time in over three years. She’d been one of the few people who hadn’t treated me with kid gloves.
But after I’d been unable to work, to take a picture again, I’d cut contact with almost everyone for months. If I couldn’t be a photojournalist anymore, I didn’t want to be part of that world. So I’d escaped into underground fighting to lock down control of my body, if not my mind.
“How’s she been?”
“Ask her yourself.” Patrick rounds the car to the driver’s side. “There’s probably more people who’d like to see you, though I have no idea why.”
He grins again and lifts a hand before getting into his car. I watch him drive off.
During the endless months of my captivity, many photojournalist and reporter friends had fought to keep my situation in the public eye, to push for negotiations, to demand action. I owe them everything for trying so hard.
Guilt surges. When I’d signed the book contract, I’d thought it was the least I could do to help others who are still where I once was. I shouldn’t be thinking about giving it up, especially since it’s one of the reasons I came to Grenville in the first place.
For the next few days, when I’m not teaching, I outline a draft of the first two chapters, which also forces me to stay in my bedroom and away from Nell. After what happened in the living room, it’s not a good idea for me to be around her. But avoiding her is harder than I’d expected.
I can—and do—keep a good physical distance from her, but there’s no escaping her scent every time she passes me or the sight of her in class, her sparrow-colored hair falling like wings around her face, and her teeth grasping her lower lip.
There’s no escaping the memory of her scars or the brush of her hand on my bare skin.
I hit the boxing gym hard, working the heavy bag and speed bag more relentlessly than I have in months. For a week, I get out of the house for a run before Nell wakes up, though when she catches on, I find her waiting in the kitchen one morning when I come downstairs. She’s wearing a T-shirt and track pants—her standard running clothes.
“You can try to avoid me all you want.” She reaches up to tighten her long, chestnut-brown ponytail. Though her tone is flippant, uncertainty and regret fill her gray eyes. “But I live here too. And frankly, you’re one of the few people who actually talks to me, so I’d really hate it if you spent the next nine months pretending I don’t exist.”
Ah, hell.
Letting out a long breath, I unclench my fists. “There is no way I can pretend you don’t exist.”
“But can you pretend that we’re friends again?”
Okay. I’m being an ass and a coward. She’s Henry’s daughter. Even if things got a little dangerous the other night, there’s a clear, distinct line between us. Though I’ve spent my life running toward danger and leaping over invisible lines demarcating the safe zone, this is one I’ll never cross.
“I don’t have to pretend.” I pull open the kitchen door and step aside so she can exit. “We are friends.”
She flashes me a smile, one that lodges somewhere inside me. I’m relieved when we reach the bottom of the hill and start to jog.
Running is one of my greatest pleasures—and one of the many things I’d been unable to do in my captivity. The first time I ran in seventeen months was when I fought my way out of the truck and escaped. Now, every time my feet slam against the pavement and my breath burns through my lungs, I remember the exact second I knew I was free.
Running alongside Nell is different. I’m used to not thinking when I run. But the sound of her breath, the thud of her sneakers, the bounce of her ponytail—even if I hadn’t been preoccupied with her lately, I would be thinking about her. Hoping she’s not getting bothered at school, that she’s not hiding anything from me or her father, that she’s pulled herself out of the darkness of her past.
“Good god.” She slows to a halt at the entrance to the railroad bridge where we usually take a short break. “When am I supposed to start improving?”
“You’ve just gotten back into it. Give it time.”
She presses her hands to her thighs and bends to catch her breath. The neckline of her shirt falls open slightly. My attention skids to her round cleavage tucked into a sports bra.
Tearing my gaze from her, I stride a distance away. My heart is suddenly pounding from more than just the run.
“Do we have time to go to Dream Bean?” Her voice floats through the self-disgust clouding my brain.
“No.” The word comes out rough. Not looking at her, I turn and start jogging again. “We need to head back. It’s getting late.”
Though I sense her surprise at my abruptness, she falls into step beside me. I keep a wider distance between us and don’t slow my pace to match hers. By the time the house is in sight, she’s fallen behind.
I stop and wait for her on the front porch. She comes up the dirt hill at a walk, her breath heavy and her skin flushed.
“You didn’t tell me we were racing.” She shoots me a scolding look as she climbs the porch steps. “Next time, I get a head start.”
I don’t bother responding since I’m not at all sure there should be a “next time.” I pull open the door for her and follow her into the kitchen. I pour two glasses of water from the fridge dispenser and hand her one.
“I’ll have to get one of those fancy espresso machines so we can make our own lattes at home.” After taking a drink of water, Nell starts filling the coffee maker. Strands of her long hair cling to her damp neck. “Dad only likes plain black coffee, but I love mochas and lattes. There’s a café down in Creekside that makes a drink called a grasshopper, which is a chocolate mocha with mint. They also have chocolate mint scones. Maybe I should learn how to make scones.”
Since when did she get so chatty?
She moves past me to fill the coffeepot with water. She smells like wind and sweat. Energy vibrates from her—the heat and pulse of physical exertion.
“I’ll pick up some more coffee at the store this weekend.” Lifting an arm, she wipes a trickle of sweat from her forehead. Her breasts rise under her shirt. Her nipples are hard.
Shut this down. Now.
Turning on my heel, I leave the kitchen and go upstairs to the guest room. My dick is half-hard already.
I slam the bedroom door. My breath is too fast. I’m a fucking pervert.
Jesus. Nell?
After grabbing clean clothes, I head into the bathroom and turn the shower on cold. The freezing spray does nothing to ease the tension gripping my chest…or the horrible lust boiling through my veins.