“Mariah…”
“Okay, yes. Fine. He’s hot, and I may have thought about him a time or two while… in bed.” Her cheeks flushed a pretty pink. “But that’s all that will ever happen. He’s exactly like Tate’s father, and I’m not falling for that again. I can’t. I just…” She looked at her empty wine glass, and tears shone in her eyes. “I can’t.”
For all of her outward bravado, underneath Mariah was just as broken as Maggie. It made her feel less alone, somehow, knowing this beautiful, glamorous woman had skeletons rattling in her closet, too.
“I’m so sorry.”
“No, no. I am. I get emotional when I drink.” Mariah blinked quickly and waved a hand in front of her face to dry the unshed tears. “Whew. Ness, you go before I mess up my face.”
“Well,” Nessie said, “I ended up in Solace because I was in witness protection after testifying against my abusive ex-husband, who was also part of the Armenian mafia.”
Maggie sat back. “Anson wrote to me about that.”
“Did he?”
“Not in a lot of detail,” she hurried to add. “Just enough to explain why he hadn’t written in a while. Honestly, I kind of thought he was making it up.”
“Oh, I wish.” Nessie shook her head. “Long story short, my ex-husband came after me, and he’s dead now. Oliver and I are safe, thanks to Jax and the men here at Valor Ridge, but I’m still learning how to live without looking over my shoulder.”
Maggie understood that fear, that hypervigilance. Every time she’d stopped for gas on the way to Montana, she’d scanned for Landry’s silver Audi, heart hammering at each glimpse of dark hair and broad shoulders. In a truck stop outside of St. Louis, she’d spotted a man with the same build and messenger bag, and she’d abandoned her half-eaten sandwich, tossing a twenty on the table before fleeing to her Airstream. She’d driven another four hours without stopping, hands shaking on the wheel, checking her rearview mirror at every intersection.
It had been the same at each motel—parking in well-lit areas, requesting rooms near the office, wedging a chair under the doorknob. She’d barely slept, jolting awake at every sound, the baseball bat she’d bought in Tennessee clutched in white-knuckled hands.
“That feeling gets under your skin,” she murmured, more to herself than the others.
Silence fell. Five pairs of eyes turned to her.
Shit. She’d said too much.
“Someone from your past?” Mariah asked.
She hesitated, then nodded. These women had shared their truths. She could share hers.
“My former co-host. Landry Whitaker. When I refused to take him back, personally or professionally, he started stalking me.” The words came easier than she expected, loosened by wine and the safety of this circle. “Little things at first. Things moving or disappearing. Notes that weren’t overtly threatening, but still felt sinister. It’s been happening for years now, on and off. The police initially dismissed me because we had once dated My producer called me difficult when I asked for extra security. Friends stopped inviting me out because he would appear and make a scene. Nobody was really taking it seriously, except Anson. He was the only one who seemed at all worried. I felt like I was losing my mind,” she admitted. “Then I came home one night to an unlocked, open back door. No forced entry. The cops said maybe I’d forgotten, but I know I didn’t. I’ve been too paranoid to leave anything unlocked, let alone open. That’s when I knew I had to leave. So I came here. To Anson.”
“You weren’t losing your mind,” Naomi said firmly. “The cops dismissed you because it’s easier than helping. They do it all the time.”
Maggie blinked back a sudden rush of tears. Apparently, wine made her emotional, too. She hadn’t known that about herself.
Or maybe it was just the relief of someone finally listening to and believing her.
Mariah pressed a tissue into her hand. Greta refilled her wine glass. No one made her crying weird. The conversation simply continued, giving her space to compose herself.
Naomi got up and crossed to the kitchen. “I think we need something to soak up all this alcohol, or we’re going to hate ourselves tomorrow.”
“Cookies!” Nessie suggested.
“Excellent idea.” Naomi returned with the plastic container, and everyone dug in.
“Oh, hey,” Greta said around a bite of cookie and glanced over at Naomi. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about Angel and Tariah. How are they doing at Haven House?”
“They’re good.” Naomi nodded. “Healing…”
“Why do I here a ‘but’ in that?”
Naomi hesitated for a long beat.
“What’s Haven House?” Maggie finally asked to break the silence.
