“Do you know them?”
When he finally responds, his voice is careful and measured. “No. But they might know me.”
Goosebumps prickle my arms. What does that mean? Who would know him? Who would follow him? All the answers my mind supplies terrify me. Criminals, enemies, people who want to hurt him. People who might hurt me to get to him.
I shake off the wild trajectory of my thoughts. This is real life, and I’m not a character in one of my novels. There must be a reasonable explanation. “Maybe they’re just lost or waiting for someone.”
A flicker of emotion crosses his face. Amusement? Pity? “Maybe.”
He doesn’t believe it. Neither do I. Not really. But pretending is easier than confronting the alternative, that danger has stalked Kolya to my doorstep. That my little haven isn’t safe anymore.
I wrap my arms around my waist. I’m standing in my living room, in my pajamas, with a man I barely know who causes my pulse to race with equal parts fear and desire. The man who broke bones to protect me, who scared away a date with nothing but a few glances, and who showed up at my door with my phone.
This whole situation is crazy. Even so, despite—or maybe because of—all the warning signs, I can’t deny his magnetic pull or the electricity that hums between us.
Chapter 8
Kolya
Chloe rushes past me, her vanilla scent and fear trailing in her wake. I haven’t raised my voice or laid a hand on her. But I’ve invaded her space as effectively as if I’d kicked the door from its hinges.
Now everything shifts to my terms, my control.
Her gaze darts to my face, then away, her pulse visibly trembling at the base of her throat. I relish that little telltale flutter more than I probably should.
The house unfolds before me, a minefield of crafts and good intentions. Every surface screams with color. Throw pillows in mismatched patterns crowd a sagging couch. Handmade artwork lines the walls. Plants with hand-painted pots rest along the windowsill.
This isn’t a home.
It’s a fortress built to keep sadness at bay.
I automatically clock all possible exits. Front door, kitchen door that leads to the backyard, single-pane windows that are laughably easy to breach. I note sight lines, blind spots, potential weapons.
Most importantly, I scour for hiding places. Where would someone stash away twenty million in diamonds? If kepttogether, the gems would form a relatively small but noticeable bundle.
Under the floorboards? Behind those childish paintings? Inside a stuffed animal?
“Welcome to the chaos.” Her hand darts in a nervous arc. “Here’s the living room and the kitchen. And…” She starts gesturing toward what must be her bedroom before abruptly dropping her hand and spinning in the opposite direction.
I suppress the twitch at the corner of my mouth. The sudden pivot is almost comical. This woman can’t even acknowledge the existence of her own bedroom in front of a man.
“Cozy place.” The polite lie rolls off my tongue with practiced ease. From where I stand, I can see the entire house. I could cross the floor in six strides and search every nook and cranny in under an hour.
Cozy? Try suffocating.
But convenient for my needs.
“Oh! I can make tea. Are you thirsty? Do you want to sit down?” She glides toward the kitchen, her hands waving like trapped birds. “I have a kettle!”
“In a minute.” I have to examine each room and at least get a sense of what I’m working with. I step inside her kitchen. “Mind if I verify the place is secure first?”
Her eyes widen slightly. “Oh, right. Yes. Of course.”
I slowly move through the space, glancing into the bathroom. Too small for a person to hide, but good for small valuables.
A single bedroom features an unmade bed, romance novels stacked on the nightstand, and clothes spilling out an ajar closet door.
Only one bedroom in this sad little bungalow.
