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A second bay broke the far-left wall, and a fireplace stood between tall windows, its mantel bare except for a fine dusting of sawdust that hadn’t quite been wiped away.
Another set of pocket doors waited nearby on the right. She hesitated only a beat before pushing through.
The bed was shoved against one wall, white sheets neatly pulled tight, pale gray comforter folded, covering the bottom half. Opposite it, a wide dresser that looked more practical than loved bore the weight of a television. A large armchair sat angled in the corner beside the bed, its faded upholstery an indiscernible color softened by years of use. A small table between them held a stack of books and a lamp.
The air smelled faintly of sawdust and soap. And something unmistakable beneath it. It wasn’t a specific scent. It was just … Ronan.
A light breeze stirred the simple dark gray drape at the window beside the armchair. She crossed the room, intent on closing it. His disregard for security was appalling. She reached for the window, then hesitated.
The armchair beckoned.
Almost without deciding to, she sank into it, the worn cushion giving beneath her weight as if shaped by long use. Her gaze drifted to the stack of books on the small table beside it. Science fiction. Dog-eared paperbacks, spines cracked, reread favorites rather than decoration.
Her head tipped back. Here, his scent was sharper. She breathed slowly, deeply, eyes closing as the chair held her. Peace crept in, quiet and insistent, smoothing the last of the tension from her shoulders.
Just for a minute, she told herself.
Sleep claimed her anyway.
8
Keys
Ronan killed the engine and sat there a second longer than necessary, staring at the Bronco. He knew it belonged to Felicity, but seeing it in his driveway sent his thoughts skidding.
What the hell was she doing here?
He scanned the front yard, the veranda. Nothing. Where was she?
Well, Murphy. Sitting here mulling over it won’t solve the puzzle.
He grabbed the takeout bag and the box with the replacement front-door lock — it had finally given out that morning — and headed inside to solve the mystery of his unexpected guest.
He followed the footprints through the thin film of dust.
And found her asleep in his armchair.
She was curled in on herself, jeans and a white tee worn soft with use, canvas sneakers still on her feet. Her hair had come loose from whatever restraint she’d started with, falling around her face in a way that made her look younger. Unguarded.
Haunted, even.
He retreated without a sound, slid the doors closed, wondering what had brought her here at all. What had made her enter.
And stay.
A conundrum, for sure.
In the meantime, the front door needed his attention. That much, at least, was simple.
He set the takeout on the oak dresser and grabbed a screwdriver from his kit. Backing out the old screws took some doing, the threads nearly stripped, metal complaining as they came free. The lock resisted at first; he worked a flathead into the seam and pried carefully until it finally gave and slid into his palm.
Some things didn’t let go without a fight. He doubted she would, either.
The replacement went in easier than he’d expected. A small mercy. He seated it, ran the new screws home. Slipped the key into the cylinder and turned it without a drag.
He closed the door and tried it again. Locked. Unlocked. Opened it.
That was when he heard it.
