“Back at the cottage . . .”
She’d walked to the far side of the bed, apparently looking for something. When he didn’t finish his sentence, she stopped and shifted her focus to him, concern tightening her features. “What’s wrong? At the cottage? What were you about to say?”
“I know the situation was intense. That bullet nearly hit you. But why did you say that I wouldn’t come back?” He walked to her and considered touching her face for some reason. He shoved his hands in his pockets. “I know we only met this morning—”
“This morning feels like a month ago.” She tried to smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. More than exhaustion clouded her face. Something akin to fear—and that twisted aknife in his chest.
“True,” he said. “But I want . . . I need you to know that I would never abandon you. I had to deal with the sniper. I said I would come back, and I did. I’m not sure what the next few days hold, but I really need you to trust me. No matter what happens. I’ll keep you safe.”
She didn’t respond. Her entire body looked rigid, like it was desperately trying to dam a tidal wave of emotion. She finally lifted a finger and choked out a whisper. “One . . . give me one second.”
He watched her speedwalk to the bathroom and shut the door.
He wanted to kick himself. Or punch something.What did he say?Why did she lookmoreafraid of him? Her reaction was the polar opposite of what he was going for. He replayed his short speech in his head. What part upset her? Maybe he should have—
“Hey.”
He turned to her voice and watched her walk back into the room, looking less troubled than moments before.
“Sorry about that,” she said.
“Don’t apologize. I don’t know what I said that upset you, though. I was trying—”
She placed her hand on his forearm. The compassion in her eyes siphoned all the frustration out of him. “Jason, I do need to apologize. You deserve to know that comment today, about you not coming back . . . that had nothing to do with you.” She let her hand slide off his arm, but her gaze stay locked on his. “You didn’t deserve that kind of reaction from me. This day, particularly my life being in danger, has resurrected some fears I thought I’d sufficiently buried. It’s not something I want to talk about though, and I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t mention this conversation or my earlier comment to my uncle.”
“Of course.”
“Please know that I do trust you. I do. I’m just . . . still dealing with some things. But that’s not your fault, and I’m sorry if I offended you.”
Earlier, in Gus’s suite, Jason was almost sure he saw a warmth in her eyes when she looked at him. Now, he was certain he saw that warmth returning. “Don’t worry about it. I’m glad you trust me.” Why was he fighting the urge to hold her? “I’ve experienced more than a few . . . stressful situations in my life. Occupational hazard. I’ve learned it helps to talk to someone.” Not that he took that advice very often. But he did believe it.
“I know.” She nodded. “I have a therapist.” She retrieved a pair of sandals from beside the bed and slid them into her suitcase. “And that’s something else Leland doesn’t need to know.”
“You two keep a lot of things from each other.”
Her eyes returned to his. “That sounds bad, I know. I’m not embarrassed about seeing a therapist. I think everyone should. But I don’t want Leland worrying about . . .”
The sadness in her eyes dropped a heavy weight on his chest. He held up a hand. “I understand. You don’t have to explain.”
How was she eliciting so much emotion from him? He dealt with people who were hurting, frightened, and distraught all the time. It was his job. He rescued kidnapping victims, tracked down stalkers, hunted drug dealers and the occasional terrorist. He’d seen pain before. Why did her pain twist his insides? He hadn’t felt like this since . . . Leah.
He needed to clear his head. “Are you ready to go back?” he asked.
She lifted her bag. “Yes, I’m ready.”
“Here,” he said, taking the bag from her, “I’ve got it.” He opened the door for her. As she brushed past him,he could smell hints of vanilla and coconut. He first noticed the faint scents when they were at the cottage, when she was in his arms. And that memory sent his thoughts hurtling in another direction—a direction he’d avoided for years.
Chapter 8
Ihave a therapist?Why did I say that?
Early morning light filtered through the sheer curtains in her bedroom. She slept well last night. But her well-rested, clear-headed mind was regretting some things her frazzled brain churned out the day before.
Tayla wasn’t uncomfortable about seeing a therapist. She knew it was a healthy decision. But when a man she might possibly admit she finds attractive suggests—with his deep voice full of compassion—that she should talk to someone, why did she have to halt the conversation with‘I have a therapist?’
Because she wasn’t going to discuss her demons. Not with someone she’d met just hours before. She wanted to assure him her fears had nothing to do with him, and she definitely appreciated the tenderness that crept into his tone, but she wasn’t going to relive the most terrifyingnight of her life. Or the demoralizing embarrassment that followed.
She checked the time. That can’t be right. She hadn’t slept until nine o’clock in months. Or longer.
