“Okay,” she said finally. “I’ll get the Heartbreaker Trades address. I think it’s on?—”
“Not the business address. Hers.”
Ten minutes later, I pulled up across the street from a compact Victorian just on the edge of downtown Quince Valley. I killed the engine, hesitating with my hand on the door handle.
The place was neat and looked lived in, but needed work. Iremembered what she’d said in my kitchen about her house, my eyes scanning the low box hedge that needed trimming, the paint peeling just a little at the highest peaks of the house.
She was too busy working to attend to it. She lived alone. She didn’t care.
But I thought she did.
It was anyone’s guess as to whether that was true, but I wanted to be that particular anyone.
But more than the little things that needed attending to, my eyes were drawn to the bay window, which had its curtains open. I could make out a painting of the ocean on the wall and two side-by-side portraits that I couldn’t see properly from here. Boys, I thought. Her brothers. Next to those, a bookshelf stuffed full with paperbacks.
Everything was bathed in the glow of what looked to be table lamps just out of sight.
My chest surged at the intimate glimpse of Winona’s life. I’d seen her, and the image she projected to the world. I’d caught glimpses of her vulnerability though, too. The caretaking side of her. The scared side of her. But this was a whole other side. The private part of her life. What she cared about. Who she loved.
I also wanted to snap at her for leaving her drapes open. Any asshole could look inside.
I was proof.
She wasn’t safe, and above all, no matter what happened next, I wanted her safe. She’d already been on the receiving end of harm; that was clear. And it was never going to happen again.
I stepped out of the car, shutting the door behind me. Then I hesitated. There was no good way to do this. Returning the bra was a ruse, and even if it wasn’t, it was fucking creepy. I could recognize that. But what else was I going to do? Beg herto let me see her again? Promise her the world? I was trying to formulate some kind of plan, slowly beginning to move across the street toward the house, when I froze. Because there was Winona, stepping into her living room.
She had her hair up in some kind of clip and was wearing a soft blue shirt, faded jeans that clung loosely to those gorgeous hips. She was holding something, too. Wine glasses. Not just one, but two. Then she laughed.
Why would she laugh?
My stomach nosedived. Because she wasn’t alone. A fuckingmanstood up and took the drink from her. He’d been in her living room.
I knew, rationally, I had zero claim on Winona. Below zero. That didn’t stop me from wanting to bang down that door and throw him out by his fucking shirt collar.
He was saying something as I stood there, making her laugh.
Only I wasn’t standing there. I was stalking across the street like a fucking psychopath, Winona’s bra in my pocket. I reached the footpath and was fully intending to bang on the door—to say what, I had no fucking idea—when another person entered the room.
A very tall, attractive Black woman with short hair and hoop earrings. She had a toddler on her hip, who she transferred to the man. He held the little girl up and kissed her on the cheek. The girl giggled. She leaned into the man, and Winona smiled in a way that made my heart fucking ache.
My mind rapidly recalibrated, and I felt ill as I realized what I’d been about to do. I thought I couldn’t make things worse. But this would have been a five-alarm fucking fire. She could have called the cops. Someone would have known who I was along the way. A stalker rap could torpedo the fucking Zynstyr deal.
I could have terrified her. I was no better than whoever that asshole was who made her flee Newfoundland.
“Hey, you!” A quivery voice called. I followed the sound. A white-haired woman was leaning out the window of the house next door. She was in a bathrobe. “What are you doing down there? Are you a Peeping Tom?”
Christ, just what I needed. “No ma’am,” I called.
I ran a hand down my face. This was over. I needed to let her go. Because hell, I don’t think no was an honest answer to that lady’s question.
“If you don’t get out of here, I’m calling the cops!” The woman called.
“Good,” I said as I headed back for the car. And I meant it. I was glad someone would be looking out for Winona. “Always do that.”
Then I peeled away from the house.
CHAPTER 16
