OxyContin.
He frowned as old memories slithered into his mind. Terrible memories that made his body brace and his stomach tighten with grief.
Grief and regret were never far from him.
They walked beside him every day. Laid down with him at night. Waited for chances to punch him in the gut and remind him of his failures.
For seven years, they’d been his two closest companions.
Oxy required a prescription. Either Genevieve had gotten these legally and was taking them for justified medical reasons. Or ... not. Given where he’d found her, he was leaning toward the latter.
He returned the metal tin to her purse and moved to stand at her bedside.
Oxy. A fashionable suitcase. Successful father. New car. China doll face. A pillow that traveled with her so that she didn’t have to lay her precious head on anyone else’s pillow.
Genevieve Woodward was messy in ways that had nothing to do with organization, and Sam didn’t do mess.
He wantednothingto do with her. In fact, he wanted her far away from him as fast as possible.
“Genevieve,” he said.
She didn’t stir.
“Genevieve.”
Genevieve jerked awake on a yelp that sent her lunging into a seated position. Her heart whacked against her chest wall. Confused and startled, she squinted against the sunshine.
A man—an unfamiliar man—stood nearby, staring at her.
Panic vanquished every shred of sleep from her brain.
Where am I?She was ... sitting on a bed in an unfamiliarroom. Automatically, she scrambled away from him until her back clunked against the metal headboard.
The man took two steps back, holding up his palms. “No need to be afraid. My name’s Sam Turner, and you’re inside my guesthouse at Sugar Maple Farm.”
Did he slip me a roofie and kidnap me?Her thoughts careened against the inside of her skull like horrified marbles. He didn’t look like a kidnapper! But how was she supposed to know what kidnappers looked like?
“As far as I can tell, you broke in, then decided to spend the night.” He spoke with what sounded like a British accent. Moving slowly, he slid his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. “When I saw your car this morning, I came to investigate. You’re not hurt as far as I can tell.”
Perish!What!No. She hadn’t broken into this person’s guesthouse, then ... slept here.
Had she?
She’d been driving to her parents’ house last night. She’d been stressed and anxious about the magnitude of her workload. She hadn’t been able to face the prospect of confronting her parents about the letter on top of all that. So she’d pulled over to the side of the road out in the country.
With a pang, she remembered reaching for her tin of pills. She’d reclined the driver’s seat and turned up her car’s sound system, letting hip-hop wash over her. She’d only intended to take a little break and get her head straight before continuing on.
Except... She vaguely recalled admiring the way the bronze sunset illuminated a quaint little white cottage set far back from the road. The cottage nestled into a meadow above a pond, hills forming its backdrop. Postcard perfect.
After that, she could only latch on to hazy recollections. Parking before the cottage. Brushing a fingertip over a morning glory vine. Opening a door that squeaked. Oh no . . .
Despite its outward cuteness, she could now see that the cottage’s interior—just one large room and a bathroom—was not at all her style. She valued security and comfort. This structure was unprotected except by a doorknob lock, and empty, minus the bed.
Genevieve glanced down. Was the bed covered with ... a jumble of her own clothing? A particularly colorful bra was on embarrassing display. Her familiar pillow bore her head’s indention. She had her robe on backward.
No one but her would know she couldn’t sleep unless she slept on her own pillow, so no one but her would have bothered to bring it inside. Also, the fact that she had her robe on backward had her fingerprints all over it. She often slipped this robe on just this way when chilly.
How very, very far she’d fallen.
