“Holden—”
“That’s why”—he forced himself to step back, letting her hands drop even though he craved her touch—“I should stay away from you. I’m sorry.”
She frowned, confusion marring her features. A hint of tears began to glimmer in her eyes.
Fuck. Now he’d made her cry. He was hurting her just by being there. “I’m—”
“Don’t. Don’t say you’re sorry for not loving me. You were honest. I appreciate that. Thank you for your sweatshirt. I’ll wash it and get it back to you. But I should go.” Then she spun and walked away, almost running from him back to her car.
A voice in his head told him to go after her. It was loud, a fucking shout in his ears.
But he couldn’t. He physically couldn’t get his feet to move.
So he just stood there—a damn coward, too scared to love her, and too weak to move on from his past.
CHAPTER 1
Present day
Clara tipped back her head,the warm shower soaking her waist-length blonde hair.
God, those post-run endorphins were good. How it had taken her almost thirty years to get into running, she had no idea. She should have started earlier. Of course, she wouldn’t be winning any awards for her speed or endurance, but heck, she had no one to impress.
Plus, it was a good way to start her week.
For most people, Monday meant the first day of the work week. Not her. Not anymore, anyway. She had one thing on her to-do list today—buy pink peonies from Sassy Stems, the local florist.
Okay, two things, because she also needed an almond croissant from The Tea House as urgently as she needed air. God, even thinking about Mrs. Gerald’s croissants made her stomach rumble.
When the water suddenly turned cold, she groaned.
Guess Scarlett’s shower time had started, and Clara’s was over.
Every time her roommate turned the water on in the other bathroom,hershower went cold. It was like the woman knew when she was in the shower and scheduled her own at the same freaking time.
They weren’t friends by any means, but Scarlett was quiet and rarely home—two things that worked well for Clara, considering she had acupuncture clients coming in and out of her converted garage all day.
She stepped out of the shower and grabbed a towel. In her bedroom, she put on some loose, high-waisted beige pants and a tight white tee. Younger Clara had been all about tight, uncomfortable high fashion. Twenty-nine-year-old Clara? She was definitely a comfort-with-a-side-of-more-comfort girl.
Heck, even the fact that she used tinted moisturizer instead of applying a full face of makeup showed what a different person she was.
She was about to pull her long hair up into a messy bun when she stopped.
It had finally reached the pre-chemo length, and she loved it.
Down…definitely down.
In the kitchen, she grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge.
A printed article on the corner of the island caught her attention. Strange. Scarlett rarely left her stuff lying around. She lived and breathed her work as an investigative reporter, and when she wasn’t out chasing a story, the woman was on her laptop or phone ninety percent of the time.
Clara lifted the piece of paper and scanned the title.
Thirty-Two-Year-Old Masseuse, Lauren Tabs, Suffers Fatal Heart Failure.
Thirty-two…it was so young for heart failure.
She scanned the article. The woman hadn’t smoked. Hadn’t drunk alcohol. In the photo, she looked fit and healthy. She’d had no reported underlying medical conditions. She’d gone in for rotator cuff surgery.
