Page 63
Once, she had been innocent.
But not anymore.
There was too much blood on her hands.
*
Felicity tossed and turned, sleep refusing to come. The moment the clock hit five a.m., she stormed out of the apartment and headed for the gym.
It was Sunday — early enough to avoid the crowds.
She had the heavy bags to herself, and for the next ninety minutes she pounded leather with her fists and feet. Cursing her life. Her weakness. Her brokenness. Her heritage. Her sister.
Her move to fucking Clearbrook.
She’d been happy in Denver. Nobody challenged her there. Nobody made her fucking quilts. Or offered to be the “best damn friend you’ve ever had.”
Freshly showered, she climbed back into the Bronco, her muscles sore, her mind weary.
“Enough!” she snapped aloud, peeling out of the parking lot, tires protesting.
A short while later, she screeched to a halt in front of the Marine’s house.
“Gertrude,” she scoffed, slamming the door and tromping up the pathway.
She pounded on the door, then turned to look out over the garden. The grass lay brown, the beds covered in mulch, shrubs shivering in the cold. The sky hung low and heavy with the promise of snow — at least six inches, the forecast had warned, due by mid-morning.
Thankfully, she wasn’t working. She wouldn’t have to deal with the fallout of people doing reckless things in it.
She spun at the sound of the lock turning. The door opened to reveal a sleep-disheveled man — his hair flattened on one side; a deep crease scored across his cheek.
Shirtless, of course. Jeans this time, button undone. Bare feet.
Heat flared low in her belly, sharp and unwelcome.
He wiped a hand over his face and blinked at her. “Deputy?”
She lifted her chin. “Marine,” she grumped, pushing past him. “Tell me how this friendship thing works.”
17
Friends
Ronan stared after her, bemused. This was unexpected. He hadn’t seen her since early December. Then again, he’d gone home for Christmas and stayed through New Year.
Felicity looked ready for a fight. And thoroughly disgruntled.
He shut the door and followed her, rubbing his arms against the chill that had followed her in. She stood in the middle of the living area, hands on her hips. “You haven’t done much since the last time I was here.”
That wasn’t entirely fair. He tackled rooms as the mood struck. Right now, he was working on the kitchen. The upstairs bathroom was earmarked for demo, and what would eventually be the primary bedroom was down to the framing. And he hadn’t been able to continue with the entrance hallway, the stairs reminding him of the time they had—
Yeah, not going there, Ronan.
“So, friendship.” She shoved her hands in her sweatshirt pockets. “Figured I’d give it a try. See if it fits.”
Hell. She was out of sorts. But that was a good thing. Better than detached.
He jerked his chin toward the kitchen. “Coffee? Should be done by now.” He’d set it when he stumbled out of bed, minutes before she hammered on the door. “Friends drink coffee together.”
