Page 19 of Run to Me

But the woman sitting on my childhood couch doesn’t care. If she cared about my career, she’d ask about it. If she cared about my love for my dolls, she would’ve saved them for me when she cleared out my old bedroom. Still, I come home every year because I care that she lost a son.

Long seconds of silence pass between us after her unwitting, invisible slap. I never speak up for myself for fear of upsetting her, which is why I refuse to cower before anyone else. No one gets to make me feel small the way Vera Donovan does.

Stay calm, Maisy. Be nice.

“My mistake,” I say.

She changes the subject, jarring me from my mini emotional meltdown. “Are you sleeping here? If so, grab an extra blanket. I’m not turning on the heat.”

“No. I have somewhere to be.” While putting on my boots, I make one last attempt at kindness. “Do you need me to do anything before I go?”

Based on her sigh, my persistence exasperates her. “I’m fine, Maisy. You can go.” She grabs the remote and turns up the volume on the television, drowning me out.

Minutes later, my car idles beside the curb at Pam’s house, where Tatum expects me. My head spins from the encounters with Jensen and Vera. They’re extreme opposites on the want spectrum. One wants my time and attention; the other wants nothing to do with me.

My instincts tell me to stand in the middle and not move in either direction. The middle ground is safe, far from the heartbreak waiting on both ends of the spectrum. I know what to expect from Vera, and I’m well-trained in shuffling around in the neutral zone where she’s concerned. Jensen, however, is a wild card. The kiss today proves as much.

The kiss.

I press my fingers to my lips and flatten my other hand on my belly. Desire thrums as my mind replays what happened. He overwhelmed me—overpowered me—in the dark depths of the alley. The scary thing is I let him. What’s worse, I liked it.

7

JENSEN

“We’re out of Budweiser, boss,” says Charlie Raines, who looks panicked and sweaty when I slide behind the bar to check in with him.

He’s new to bartending and only works part-time. I haven’t had the opportunity to train him, much less prepare him for tonight’s madhouse.

“There should be two more kegs,” I say, certain I put in the order.

His dark blond curls flop when he shakes his head, and his glasses slide down his nose. “Nope. Javi and I both checked. We’re out.”

Shit. Did I forget?

I scratch my beard and assess the situation, glancing around to see who drinks that brand of beer. “Only the old guys are drinking Bud. Give them Bud Light on special. If they complain, tell them to come to me.”

Nodding, he pushes up his glasses. “Okay.”

“Good man.” I clap him on the back. “You’re doing great.”

“Thanks.” He exhales in relief before scurrying toward a customer who’s waving us down.

I’ve never had this many people packed inside my bar. To be honest, I’m a little overwhelmed myself. We host karaoke once a month, but the air in Walford shifted after Tatum’s return. An energy sparked in the community with her homecoming, and wherever she goes, the people follow.

People here love her, but not because she’s famous. They love her because she’s sweet, generous, and never exposed Walford as her pre-fame stomping ground. The town promises sanctuary to those who need it, but its protection is only offered if privacy goes both ways.

Tatum’s posse, while few, takes up a lot of space. Her massive bodyguards—dressed for combat in military cargo pants and tight black tees—lean against the wall behind her, their diligent eyes sweeping the bar for threats. It’s impossible for these guys to blend in, but they aren’t the reason everyone is abuzz tonight. No. It’s the Hollywood royal sitting at Tatum’s table.

Graham Kingston. The world’s biggest movie star and the man who won’t keep his manicured hands off of Maisy.

Maisy’s here—in my bar—looking like my wettest dream in red leather pants and a black sweater cut low in the front, her magnificent cleavage on display. I haven’t seen her since our kiss. If she snuck in and out of Walford in the past month, she moved right under my nose.

While working the floor, I steal glances at her. A few times, our eyes meet, which means she’s keeping tabs on me too. She’s aware of my presence and whereabouts. The worst thing about tonight is watching her smile at Graham. God, I love her smile. I want it aimed at me; it’s been too long.

When we were kids, we teased and laughed together often. However, the older Maisy got, the less she smiled until she stopped altogether. I’ve seen pictures of her with Tatum over the years, and Maisy never wore a genuine smile in a single photograph. Not one.

I want to believe she’s unhappy because I’m not there to brighten her day like I used to be. This belief is easier to swallow than the likelihood that I’m the person who robbed her of the ability to feel genuine happiness.