I’d tucked my phone into a side pocket. The single text exchange with Flynn was still the only contact between us since I’d left his place Friday night.
Flynn:
Please call Holden. Let him know you’re okay.
Me:
I will.
Then nothing.
I’d started and deleted half a dozen texts. I wanted to apologize for leaving, but I also wanted answers. I wanted to understand.
That required a conversation, face-to-face.
I pushed down my accelerator, eager to get there. It was a good thing I liked driving. I was getting my fill with all these trips back and forth.
Holden had let me have it for driving home after taking a punch in the face too. Not that I was surprised. Riverton was too small to keep bar fights a secret.
He’d actually been less intense about it than I’d expected, though. He accepted my apology and said he never wanted me to avoid home because of him.
It’d been a good talk, in the end. We didn’t say everything that needed to be said. Neither of us was very good at that. But we’d ended on a more positive note.
The highway exit came up, and I slowed to change lanes. Flynn’s small cottage, in a little village of rentals, was only a few blocks from the highway. My pulse jumped as I turned onto his street.
I didn’t see his car, but he was probably just leaving work. I could have caught him at the auto shop, but I’d rather sit on his porch all night than face him and my brothers at the same time.
This wasn’t a group chat situation.
I grabbed my phone and climbed out of my car, happy to stretch my legs for a few minutes. I walked up to the small concrete porch and took a seat on the cold step.
Then I waited.
Fifteen minutes later, Flynn’s Buick Regal pulled in beside Monarch. Our eyes met through the windshield. We sat there, staring for a minute. Then two.
I wondered if he might decide to back up and drive away. Instead, he cut the engine and threw open the door.
Flynn unfolded his large body from the sedan, and damn, the man’s size never failed to stun me.
He could probably kill someone without even trying…
The stray thought didn’t unsettle me. In fact, it was a comfort. If Flynn killed someone, it had to be an accident. I refused to believe he’d set out to commit cold-blooded murder. And if he had, how was he out of prison already?
No. There was more to this story. IknewFlynn, despite what he’d claimed Friday night. He was big and strong, but he was soft inside. Gentle. Kind.
He approached the porch, expression wary.
“Hi,” I said, voice a little shaky.
He stopped in front of me. “Hi.”
With me on the top step and him on the ground, we were at eye level for once.
My chest ached. “I’m sorry I didn’t stay.”
“I’m sorry I pushed you away.”
“Do you want me to go away?” I asked uncertainly. “Or?—”
