Nikki looped a hand around his forearm. “Have I mentioned lately how much I appreciate a man who’s not afraid to show his bare arms? If not, I want you to know I do appreciate it. You’ve got great arms.”
“And you,” Clint appeared to think himself duty-bound to give Nikki a compliment in return, “are wearing really nice perfume.”
Nikki raised her eyebrows suggestively. “It’s called Poison.”
“But it’s not really poison,” Clint said with an edge of doubt.
“You’ll have to sip some from my wrist to find out.”
Clint turned pink and laughter rumbled from Nikki. “Ready for lunch?”
“Ready. You?”
“So,soready.” Nikki winked at Britt as she turned Clint toward the parking lot.
Britt watched them go, then scooped the discarded chocolate from the ground and lobbed it into the nearest trash can.
Across town, Zander sat at his desk inside his room at the inn, staring through the window before him.
Going through his days without Britt, without hope of seeing her or talking with her, had drained the color from his life like water from a bathtub. He’d caught up with his writing goals. The story was coming together, and he was on pace now tofinish his manuscript ahead of schedule. But he couldn’t make himself care.
He missed her.
She’d told him she was on the edge of falling apart, and now it was his turn to stand on that same cliff. So far he’d kept himself from coming undone by forcing himself to eat, sleep, write, and exercise. He’d been praying long and often. And he’d been telling himself that this situation was going to lead him and Britt to better things.
It had to. He couldn’t accept or even think about the alternative.
As happy as his relationship with Britt had made him since Nora’s wedding, it hadn’t been without flaws. She’d never told him she loved him, and he hadn’t been able to tell her that he loved her without fearing that he’d scare her. And—as the aftermath of her abduction proved—she wasn’t willing to confide in him.
He wanted their love to go far deeper than that. With every molecule of him, he was certain that their love could go deeper. Would go deeper.
He’d made himself plain to her on Friday night. She’d said she needed time. He’d given her time. Now he had to have faith that the God who’d heard and answered the prayers he’d prayed when he’d been trapped inside Frank’s apartment would use this no-man’s-land of pain to take him and Britt where they needed to go. Together.
Standing, Zander stretched his arms overhead. Then he hooked his thumbs through his belt loops, his attention still latched on the scene outdoors.
He’d waited thirteen years for Britt.
Winning her heart wasn’t a short game. It had proven itself to be a very, very long game.
He was a shell of himself without her. His hands itched to touch her and his eyes longed to see her.
But for her, he would force himself to be patient.
For the remainder of Monday, all of Tuesday, and most of Wednesday, Britt tried to wrestle her mental health into submission. She wrestled with it while looking over business accounts and making chocolate. At home in front of the television. In bed when sleep evaded her.
Almost a week had passed since Tom’s men had kidnapped her. In that time she’d survived on little but gumption and pre-packaged food.
By dinnertime on Wednesday, she’d exhausted her supply of both.
Dizzy with tiredness, she peered blankly at the kitchen cupboard in her cottage for five minutes. Despite her body’s weariness, her brain churned with fears.You’re helpless. You’re out of control. You’re not safe. Not even here. You’re not safe anywhere.She couldn’t bear the agitated hamster wheel of her thoughts. She’d felt better after she’d been impaled by a tree branch than she did now.
Hands trembling, she assembled ingredients for a salad on her cutting board. As she chopped a carrot, the tip of her knife nicked her index finger. The spot stung. Then blood welled.
Britt cursed and examined the cut. It wasn’t serious. It didn’t require stitches. It was just the kind of ordinary, garden variety incision that happened to people who cooked.
Even so, overwhelming despair and frustration built inside her as she watched blood drip from it. The pressure of her emotions increased and increased.
She squirted a drop of soap on the cut, ran it under water, flicked the water off angrily, and pressed a paper towel against her finger.
