Her eyes took an age to get to his, but when they did, any misgivings he might have had dissipated. She was an adult. A woman, not a kid, and not one of the MC hangers-on who’d been coerced or forced by necessity to mingle with the bikers. To put out for the bikers.
“Let me make you dinner,” she said, and right there, in the middle of Main Street, where anybody in the whole world could see him, Clay Navarro came dangerously close to crying his eyes out like a little boy.
“No, I… Thanks, George. Thank you, but you don’t want—”
“Shut up, Andrew,” she said, knocking the air out of his sails. “Get in.”
“I’ll meet you there,” he said. “I should get my truck and a shower.”
“You remember where it is?” she asked.
Oh, I know, he thought, half listening to her directions before heading back to his room at a jog, anxious and excited with a good dose of guilty.
The guilt grew as he showered and changed, taking in his grim surroundings. George Hadley was a good woman, a clean woman, and the last thing she needed in her life was Clay’s brand of filth. What the hell had he been thinking?
He considered not going but went anyway, telling himself it was because he didn’t like to keep a woman waiting, but underneath he knew that wasn’t it—not really. He wanted to go, damn it. He wanted a little of her pristine existence to rub off on him, polish him up, and get rid of some of his grime. It was selfish, especially considering how dangerous his situation was, but…but he’d tell her in person. He’d tell her he couldn’t, and then he’d stop by the store for another bottle of booze and come back to this shithole, where he’d drink and maybe even jerk off for the first time in months.
He’d get through this, just like he always did—and he’d do it without dragging her with him.
* * *
George put down her empty glass and looked at the clock—an hour had passed since she’d left Andrew Blane in the street in front of the clinic. An hour in which he’d no doubt gone back to his place and decided not to reemerge. She’d even stopped off on the way for beer and a bottle of wine. She’d panfried a couple of trout from up the road in Madison and steamed some green beans from the garden—then, considering his size, made the whole package of rice. Would four cups be enough?
Only now it was an hour later and he still wasn’t here, which meant he wasn’t coming, and all the anticipation had fizzled into something hollow and tight and much too large for her chest.
That was the problem with removing the layers and layers of protection she’d built up over the years—things hurt.
George sat in her kitchen on one of the overstuffed armchairs beside the cold wood stove and let herself tear up for about thirty seconds before nipping the self-pity in the bud. Whatever the man was, whoever he was, he was messed up in ways George wasn’t equipped to handle.
She’d do best to forget about him entirely. Maybe she’d run into him in town and tell him to come back to her practice, because they were better off as doctor and patient. He needed the job done, and she was qualified, so she might as well be the one to do it.
With a satisfied nod, she moved to the front door to turn off the porch light. Just as it flicked off, she saw it again—the movement she’d seen, or rather felt, in the woods across the street last night. She narrowed her eyes at whatever it was and then, without conscious thought, pulled open the screen door, letting it slam behind her, and marched down the steps, straight across the street, and right to the man who slid out of the shadows.
“George.”
“Andrew,” she said without a hint of surprise. She’d known it, hadn’t she? “Too scared to come in?”
“Something like that.”
“I won’t bite.”
“No?” he asked, sounding a little disappointed.
“You change your mind, then?”
“Still thinking about it.”
“Well, it’s last call, so you’d better decide.”
She saw the shine of his white teeth before turning back to her house and tromping back up the stairs. With a last, disappointed huff, she pulled open the screen and let it fall behind her.
Only it didn’t slam as expected. Which meant… She sucked in a nervous, edgy breath at the sound of his footfalls, followed by the quiet thud of the door shutting, then the snick of the lock being turned into place. Andrew Blane and his obsession with locks.
* * *
“I hope you like fish. I made trout.”
“Sounds good.”
