Go ahead and run, he thought with a fond shake of his head.If you run fast enough, maybe your demons won’t catch up with you.
He was halfway to the kitchen door, intent on finding a quiet corner to read, when he collided with Sabrina.
“It’s like running into a freight train.” She laughed after stepping back.
His breath strangled in his lungs for reasons that had nothing to do with the collision.
The first thing he noticed—always the first thing—was how good she looked. Her hair was healthier than when she’d first arrived at BKI. The overhead light showed how the dark strands glimmered. And her face…that face that was emblazoned on the backs of his eyelids when he closed his eyes at night…had filled out. The sharp hollows had been replaced with soft curves and a rosy glow. But it was her eyes that tied his tongue. Large, luminous, and alive in a way they hadn’t been before.
He'd always thought she was pretty. But now?
Christ! She’s so beautiful that it hurts to look at her.
“What did you do to Britt?” Her tone was a mix of amusement and curiosity. “He ran out of here like a scalded dog.”
And god help me, that accent!
Britt spoke with the same lilting cadence and round vowels, but somehow, it all sounded softer and sweeter coming out of Sabrina’s mouth.
“I fed him some hard truths.” He shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t think he cared much for them.”
Her lips curved into a small smile that he would swear did something diabolical to his heart. Then she settled her hand lightly on his forearm.
Her fingers were soft. Her skin was cool. And even though her touch was simple, it sent a jolt of electricity racing up his spine.
“You’re a good friend, Hew.” Her voice was soft and sincere. “Even if Britt doesn’t see it right now, I do.”
Friend.
The word hung in the air between them like an anchor. It seemed to sink into the tender, hollow place where his most secret hopes resided.
She’d clung to him like a lifeline in the months since she’d joined BKI.
He got it. Their shared grief, loneliness, and individual traumas had fused into a mutual bond. Now, he was her safe space, the person who never pushed, the one who listened without judgment.
As she stared up at him, her dark eyes full of affection and trust, he knew with a gut-deep certainty that friendship was all she felt for him.
Which is my bad luck,he thought wistfully.Because I feel so,somuch more for her.
34
Julia O’Toole’s house
Britt stood at Julia's front door, his finger hovering over the doorbell like it was the detonation button on a bomb.
“Grow some balls,” he repeated Hew’s advice.
His finger shook when he pressed the bell. The chime had barely sounded before chaos erupted inside.
Ren’s deep, booming barks rattled the windows. Chewy’s shrill yapping joined in. And then, of course, there was Gunpowder. The parrot squawked twice before bellowing his favorite phrase: “Dick breath!”
Britt groaned.So much for our retraining sessions.
“I’m coming!” Julia called. Her voice—that sharp Chicago accent mixed with her low, husky tone—made his knees weak and almost sent him back down the walkway. But he stood his ground and nearly ground his teeth to dust in the seconds before the door flew open.
The first thing to greet him was Ren. The three-legged pitbull mix enthusiastically licked his hand. Chewy, the pint-sized sewer rat lookalike, clawed at his leg like he wanted to scale him. Binks sat on the back of the sofa and, in the way of cats, simply offered him a slow blink of disinterest as if to say,Oh. You again.
And then there was Julia.
