Not because he didn’t want her. But because he did.
That was somehow worse.
She wanted to be furious at him for pulling her close, then for pulling away. For making her feel seventeen and shattered all over again. But the anger kept collapsing under the weight of longing, confusion, and an ache that had never really healed.
She hated that she still felt it. Marshall could fluster her with one hesitation, one look, one inch of space.
And she hated—most of all—that a part of her still trusted him with her life even when she didn’t trust him with her heart.
She reached her front step before she realized she’d been holding her breath.
Focus. She needed to focus. A gala was coming, Morris’s orbit was tightening, Summit’s numbers were getting uglier, and she was juggling secrets she had no business carrying.
She was already stretched thin. She felt one sharp nudge away from cracking.
Her hands wouldn’t stay steady as she pushed her key into the lock.
They hadn’t been steady since she got into the car after the wedding—since she’d stood outside under the string lights, his hand warm at her waist, his eyes on her like she was the only thing in the world worth looking at.
Since he almost kissed her. Since she almost let him.
She’d left without saying goodbye and driven straight home.
She’d spent the whole drive replaying it, furious at herself for wanting it, furious at him for pulling away, furious at the universe for dangling something she could never have. The gala had already loomed on her calendar. Hale’s expectation, Morris’s interest—it all stacked inside her chest like too many boxes in too little space. And now Marshall insisted on coming with her. As her boyfriend?
So maybe she was already unraveling when she opened the door.
But the moment she stepped inside, any pretense of pulling herself together fell apart.
Cleo wasn’t at the door.
She was always at the door, barely waiting until Norah had it open before the cat nudged at her legs. Even at two in the morning, like it was now.
“Cleo?” Norah called softly.
No jingle of her collar. No answering meow.
A cold ripple skated down Norah’s spine.
Norah stepped inside. Her heel nudged something. In the glow of the streetlight that came through the doorway behind her she could see a book at her feet. Sprawled open, spine cracked.
Her stomach dropped. She reached for the light switch.
The room snapped into view, and her breath stuttered.
Her house—her sanctuary—looked like a storm had hit it.
Pillows on the floor. Couch cushions tossed aside. Her bookshelf half-emptied, three novels splayed open on the rug like broken birds. Kitchen drawers hung open, silverware scattered, the dish towel knocked to the floor.
She moved toward the bedroom on numb, careful feet, pushing the door open with her fingertips.
Her comforter was half-pulled off. Closet doors open. Shoes dumped out of their cubbies. Her hamper overturned. Her desk chair lay on its side. Papers everywhere.
Her breath vanished. Her pulse thudded hard in her ears. She got down on her knees, looking for her notebook. The one with her notes about the NorthBridge discrepancies. With the real estate holdings printout she’d meant to destroy after Marshall’s warning.
It was gone.
And in the far corner, wedged under the bedside table, two green eyes blinked at her.
