“What did you do?” he asked. “Coerce it from her while she was flying?”
“As if,” he replied, looking heartily offended. “I told her you were an old friend trying to reconnect. If she got chatty after a swing, that can’t be helped.”
“I owe you.”
“It was no hardship, believe me. She’s a sweet sub—I’ve been wanting a taste for some time. Besides, if finding this woman removes the perpetual scowl from your face, it’s worth it. We’re an easygoing, fun crowd, and you’re bringing down the mood.”
Several minutes later, Julia reemerged from the house looking more composed. Leland rose.
“If you’ll excuse me. I’m in the mood for seconds.” Before he crossed to the door, Alec heard him repeat, “No hardship at all.”
As long as he’d known him, Leland was a loner. But maybe there was a spark of something special happening with Julia.
Emily’s silhouette under the parking-lot lights replayed in his head until it settled as an ache in his chest. They needed to talk—really talk—when the dust settled. And there was still a promise to honor.
Now that he finally had a clear direction, he couldn’t afford to misstep.
Chapter 7
Fresh from a shower and wrapped in the ice-blue satin kimono she’d bought herself last Christmas—her only gift—Emily sat on the edge of her bed, working lotion into the burning soles of her feet. Not yet thirty, she suspected waiting tables and her chosen career would leave her with a lifetime of sore arches and knotted calves. Neither waitresses nor chefs got to sit much, and her body already bore the proof of that.
Once she was all slicked up, she balanced on the sides of her feet, slipped out of her robe, and—in a camisole and boy shorts—pulled back the covers. It was Sunday. She’d worked the morning shift and, mercifully, had the rest of the day to herself. Studying for an upcoming test could wait. First, a nap. Her one luxury.
To avoid sleeping the day away—which was entirely possible after the week she’d had—she set an alarm.
With her blinds closed and the apartment silent, she had a knee on the mattress, about to climb in when the doorbell rang. Emily dropped face-first into her pillow, not sure whether to scream, curse, or cry.
Maybe if she’d ignore it, whoever it was would go away.
When the ringing stopped and knocking began—sharp and determined—she slipped on her robe again, cinched it tight, slid her feet into fuzzy pink scuffs, and dragged her tired butt to the door to see who it was.
The knocking had turned into impatient thuds by the time she reached the living room. “Okay, okay... I’m coming!” she called.
Through the peephole, she saw only a broad chest and a dark shirt stretched over muscle. She frowned, not expecting anyone—least of all a man. She hadn’t dated in forever.
Frowning, she asked, “Who is it?”
“Alec.”
She froze. Not even breathing.
What was he doing here? And how had he found her?
He knocked again, annoyance plain in his voice. “Open up, Em. We need to talk, and I refuse to do it on your doorstep through a locked door.”
Hands trembling, she twisted the lock and dead bolt and pulled open the door. Then, still in shock he was actually standing there, she blurted the world’s most idiotic comment. “I’m on the third floor. I don’t have a doorstep.”
He arched a dark blond brow as if to say:After eight years, this is your greeting?And the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth said he remembered exactly who she was.
She should’ve invited him in but instead, she stood frozen in the doorway.
As a kid, she’d thought the towheaded boy from down the street was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. But the man standing in front of her now was something else entirely. He seemed taller, broader, the kind of solid that came from years on the force. He and Ethan used to work out several times a week, and Alec ran, which explained the faint tan lines beside his still-impossibly blue eyes. A rough shadow of beard framed lips she’d once dreamed of kissing.He looked rugged, confident, even better than she remembered. And she felt her heartbeat stutter.
“Am I allowed to come in?” he asked after a moment, a hint of amusement tugging his lips upward.
“Yes. Sorry,” she said quickly, stepping aside on shaky legs to let him through.
He glanced around, and she saw her shabby apartment through his eyes—one bedroom, one bath, mismatched garage-sale furniture, thrift-store lamps. It wasn’t much, but it was hers. A fortress of scraped-together survival.
