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Grand larceny wasn’t on her lifetime achievement list.
There was a sharp rat-rat-rat on the front door, heralding her babysitter’s arrival.
Olivia sighed and stared forlornly at the heater. It was getting late, and her body was feeling the strain of driving each of those eight hundred miles. There was nothing left to do here now, not until her brain cleared, and her possessions wouldn’t be any less ruined by another night of mildew-infested air.
God, Grit better keep his mouth shut tonight; she wasn’t in the mood for teasing.
Trudging down the hall, she tried to reassure herself that she’d lived for two years without anything in this house. Sentimental value was greater than the financial worth, that was all.
Her heart quivered with joy before plummeting to the bottom of her stomach, in the same goddamn breath as she opened the door.
Atticus was a dead man.
The man standing outside was older, of course, but the lines on his face were more from stress and pain than actual aging. There were scars down one side of his cheek and neck where the heat from an explosion had kissed him. His beard was gray, like his short-cropped hair, and neatly trimmed.
He gave her a crooked smile, his sea mist-green eyes meeting hers without recognition. “Hello there. It seems I’m your ride this evening.”
Blinking once, Olivia found she’d lost her voice. There wasn’t even a vague spark of familiarity in his gaze, yet her idiotic heart took one look at him and flopped at his feet.
“It’s okay, I’m Atticus-approved. I’ll get you where you’re goin’ without a fuss.”
Taking her chances with a rot-infested house seemed more sensible than getting in a vehicle with him. She remembered what his hand felt like between hers as she clung to it, willing him to stay strong and come back whole from the coma. The breadth of his palm, the length of his fingers. How rough the callouses were.
She made a sound like a trapped guinea pig, much to her disgust.
Zeke’s brow furrowed in puzzlement. With the confidence of a man who dominated his surroundings, he reached out and pressed the pad of his thumb lightly to the underside of her chin. Eyes narrowing into pale jade slits, he studied her face.
Nowthere was recognition.
His hand dropped; he took a step away abruptly. “Olivia.”
Of course, he wouldn’t want to touch the living, breathing reminder of how vulnerable he’d been in the months after he got his tight ass blown up. Men didn’t like that, did they? It wasn’t like he was going to smile brilliantly and say,‘Hey, remember me? The last time you saw me, I was riddled with pain, and had a tube up my—’
“You look different.” It was an accusation, not an observation.
She did? Baffled, Olivia tried to think what could be different about her when she hadn’t had time todoanything. Her days had been consumed by long hours in the hospital; most of her nights, too. When she wasn’t by her mom’s side, she’d tried to catch up on her sleep, usually with one eye on the door in case Jared tried to come in.
Maybe Zeke thought she looked older? Haggard, exhausted, weary.
She couldn’t refute any of it, because that was exactly how she felt.
“The blue suited you,” he said gruffly. “Where are your bags?”
The blue? She almost laughed. Yeah, that was a big change. In his mind, she probably had the short, spiky hairdo that was fitting for a caffeine-loving, computer-orientated geek, but Olivia the makeshift-hospice nurse was back to her original mahogany-red color, the curly locks down to her shoulders.
Her voice was still AWOL.
Issuing a warning growl of frustration, Zeke shot her a disapproving look that made her want to curl up and cry. “I haven’t got all night, Olivia. Tell me where your bags are so I can put them in the goddamn truck.”
What hadshedone to rile his temper?Hewas the one who hadn’t bothered to stay in touch, even after she explained the situation—with a brief overview of her feelings for him—in her note. It hadn’t been all hearts and flowers, sure, because how the hell did she tell the first guy who’d ever held her attention that she thought she was in love with him?
Scoffing, her heart wilting, she shook her head. No, she wasn’t going to put up with this. Screw Atticus and his orders. Fuck Zeke and his unwelcoming attitude. They didn’t know what she’d been through, how fuckingtiredshe was—right down to the soul.
Without a word passing her lips, she stepped back into the house and closed the door, engaging the locks before she turned her back against the wood, using it to brace her descent to the floor.
Wrapping her arms around her knees, she pressed her face to them and fought back a hiccupping sob. The door shuddered with several, firm thumps, but he didn’t belong in here. This washerhouse for as long as it remained upright.
It was like having another clock counting down the minutes until her world imploded. There’d been one hanging over her head as her mother grew sicker, frailer, as the time slipped past in an unceasing parade of tests, bed baths, chemotherapy, and pain.
