He staggers back into the living room. He’s got another bottle of whiskey now, but he doesn’t bother to use a glass this time. Just takes a swig straight out of the bottle and walks toward me. “Well, isn’t that consider—” He finally takes a second to look at me, his wrinkled forehead crinkling deeper and tired, hazel eyes narrowing as though he’d just caught me in a lie. “What’d you say your name was?”
“I didn’t.”
He shakes his head and quietly barks, “Dammit, what’s your name, child?”
I cross my arms over my chest in reflex, as though the movement will somehow make me seem stronger. “Lou . . . Tallulah Adaire.”
He watches me for another minute with skeptical eyes, then eventually rubs a hand over his untrimmed beard and swivels around. He’s stumbling away again—this time, toward a set of stairs on the far-right corner—and I notice a limp in his step. He doesn’t seem to mind, seeing as he’s left his cane behind.
I roll my eyes. Well, it’s been pleasant, but that must be my cue to leave. I spin on my heel and reach for the doorknob when I hear his garbled voice. “Housekeeping. Tomorrow, be here nine o’clock sharp for details. One slip and you’re out.”
When I turn back to question, he’s already disappeared up the stairs. I’m not inclined to go after him for answers, so I step out into the brisk air and head toward the road, wondering what just happened.
Whatever his problem is, though, it doesn’t bother me as much as I let on. Maybe it should. I know I’m selfish for this, but it’s oddly comforting to find another person in this town who’s got issues.
I swear something flickered in his eyes when he finally looked at me. Could he have known Grams?
The possibility alone makes my heart swell. I’ve seen enough pictures of her younger self to know how much we look alike: identical large brown eyes and fair skin, the same heart-shaped face, and we’re both above average in height. The only major difference is our hair color, hers being almost black, while my lighter, honey-brown strands come from Dad’s side of the family.
Still, even with our obvious resemblance, the chances of him having been close to Grams are slim. We had just celebrated her ninetieth birthday the month before her passing, and Mr. Blackwood only appears to be around seventy, possibly late sixties. That’s a pretty big age gap.
Regardless, I didn’t come here to pry into her past. I just wanted . . . Well, I suppose I didn’t really know what I wanted, what I expected to gain out of moving here. Comfort, perhaps? Some sort of closure?
Maybe I just needed someplace to run to.
Chapter 7
The skies have casta dark blanket over the town, and the temperature has dropped enough that my lips feel numb. A sharp breeze teases strands of my hair. This skinny road is nestled beneath a tower of trees on each side, their naked branches looming over me. I lift the scarf above my chin and pick up my pace toward the inn.
It’s faint at first, the whisper of warmth that brushes over the back of my neck.
When my skin starts to tingle, the heat building up behind me, I slow my steps. Just a few seconds later and I can feel it completely, the presence I’m growing more familiar with, and I come to a halt. I’m shivering slightly in the cold, itching for the coziness of my room, but I can’t seem to get my legs to take another step.
The heat behind me brushes closer until I can almost feel his body against mine. His build blocks most of the wind, and his warmth has my muscles relaxing from the frigid breeze. I want to melt into him so I can feel safe and sound, let the impossible heat he radiates relieve me of the evening’s chill. But of course that’s crazy. He’s a stranger. A ghost. A . . . I have no idea what he is, and that might be what terrifies me most.
Slowly, I turn my head. Despite knowing I can’t physically see him, I need to face him anyway. It’s killing me, moving so slowly, but I’m afraid he might disappear again before I get any answers. Or am I afraid to discover he isn’t real? I can already glimpse him from the corner of my eye, and the fact makes my breath catch in my throat.Holy freaking fiddle sticks,I can see him.
He’s taller than I thought, maybe 6’4”, with thick, slightly wild, dark brown hair. By the time I’ve unfrozen my legs and managed to turn the rest of my body around, my throat’s gone dry and I can’t take my eyes off him. With chiseled cheekbones, a prominent jaw, and nothing but taut, sculpted muscles beneath his fitted black T-shirt . . . he isallman. How he is not freezing in nothing but a T-shirt and jeans is beyond me. My gaze lazily wanders back up to his face. I swear my heart stops when I look right into his eyes, and I hear my own gasp.
Dark pools of grey and black fill the irises.
I’ve seen those eyes before. Except this time, there’s no hint of the green I’d glimpsed then. No hint of color at all. Only darkness.
He stares downward, watching me just as intently as I’m watching him—perhaps even more so. His eyes are impossibly hard, a mixture of ice and steel, and I don’t see how the hands that touched me so delicately before could belong to the same person.
At 5’8”, every bit of a size seven in women’s clothing, and with an athletic frame formed from twelve years of volleyball, I’ve never been considered a petite or fragile girl. But right now, standing beside his imposing build, I certainly feel like I’m both of those things.
I squint, trying to focus, but the outline of his frame begins to blur.Am I seeing this right? The edges of his shoulders, his hair, they’re wavering, blending in with the shadows of the night. His eyes narrow as he watches me, then his gaze follows my own. The moment he notices his flickering form, his face twists into something fierce and, before I realize what’s happening, he’s gripping my arms and shoving me backward. Just when I think my back’s about to slam into a tree, he controls his movements enough to gentle the impact into something I hardly notice at all.
I’m sandwiched between the sturdy frame of his body and the tree, with his arms on either side of me, blocking me in. My breaths are ragged, and my cheeks are burning hot with the adrenaline coursing through me. He’s both tall and broad enough that the only thing in my line of sight is his chest.
The heavy, uneven sound of his breathing is coming from above my head. It quiets, like he’s struggling to get it under control, and he doesn’t move a muscle for what feels like an eternity. With his hands planted on the tree, he backs away from me, breaking contact between our clothes yet still close enough to feel his warmth, his invisible grip on me.
When I look up, my eyes skimming his shoulders and hair, he’s not blending in with the background anymore. Just like the night of my accident, I find myself wondering . . . is he solid enough to touch?
Without thinking, I reach up and graze his wide shoulders, just above his collarbone. My fingers tremble against him. His body heat seeps through the fabric of his shirt like it’s not even there, zipping through my fingertips and down my chest, until it warms the pit of my stomach like bourbon. Something white and rough on his skin catches my eye, poking out about half an inch from the top edge of his T-shirt.A scar. It looks so much like mine, reminding me of the other night, when he touched it. Touched me. It’s just below his collarbone, and I lightly run my thumb across it.
His entire body stiffens, from his shoulders to his legs, and his Adam’s apple bobs once in his throat.
