BY THE TIME THE CARRIAGErolled onto Theresa’s drive, Lydia had composed herself. The knowledge she’d never write again still made the idea of curling up under her bedcover for the rest of her life appealing, but Abraham’s presence and silent support made facing the world bearable. Barely, but enough. If only she could hold his hand or lean into him whenever the brokenness of her situation overwhelmed her and threatened to drown her. Yes, knowing God was with her at all moments was a consolation, but there was no denying the relief Abraham’s physical presence brought.
How was it that a man she’d met twelve days ago and agreed to friendship with only yesterday had become her anchor? She’d written plenty of romance novels with fast friendships and whirlwind romances, but she hadn’t actually believed them realistic. Was it possible she was living a dream? Considering the fantastical turn everything had taken with her Billy Poe novels coming to life in the most horrific manner possible, she shouldn’t be surprised that her romance novels decided to vie for a position in her reality. But was this reality? Or would Abraham, like a fictional detective, disappear once the book was closed on the Billy Poe case?
He ducked out of the carriage to the graveled drive and turned to assist her. His tender and compassionate smile promised her that he wasn’t going anywhere, but her imagination was an atrocity that shouldn’t be trusted. She was simply reading too much into his expression. It didn’t matter that crying in his arms made her feel loved, cherished, and safe. He was her friend—whether temporary or a forever sort—and that was all.
His warm hand wrapped around hers, and a zing traveled up her arm.
No. No.No!Zings and locked, longing gazes were only supposed to happen in romances. They didn’t happen in real life.
Yet here she stood, half ducked at the door, completely unable to remove her attention from the molasses-colored eyes that made her heart thud harder. Friends didn’t stare into each other’s eyes for no other reason than to enjoy the sight of them. That was what lovers did. She flicked her gaze away, but instead of going somewhere safe, it found his lips.
You have to stop this, Lydia. He is not the hero of your novel, nor are you the heroine.
Her foot overshot the narrow metal step, and she tumbled forward. Abraham moved quicker than her fall, and she found herself tucked safely within his arms.
Or rather, hanging from them.
The tips of her toes dug into the gravel, and her knees hovered inches above the ground, thanks to his strong hold.
Abraham’s voice rumbled against her cheek where it pressed against his chest. “If you were trying to knock me off my feet again, you missed your target. My lips are higher up.”
Good gracious. Had he noticed her attention on his mouth? Her face flamed even though she could hear the jesting in his tone. If he jested, that was a good sign, right? Inside jokes between friends were special—especially those that referenced a kiss. Friends kissed on occasion, right? Not that she’d ever kissed Theresa, Nora, or Flossie, but the French did, didn’t they? Surely the Hall and Pelton surnames had some French history somewhere …
He hefted her higher, and she gained her feet—although they weren’t much in helping her to stand when her legs were as firm as jam under this man’s amused smile and supportive grip. He didn’t even smell like a perfumed corpse to her anymore.
This is not a romance novel. Stop it. Now.
Lydia let loose a nervous giggle and stepped away, not at all sure that she’d be able to stay upright. “I thought we were moving forward as if that never happened.”
“Some embarrassing moments are too good to let go. Especially when I’m presented with an opportunity to bring them up again.”
“I’ll keep my lips to myself from now on, thank you very much. And that’s a promise.”
A suppressed grin peeked out. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
“Oh, and you think we’re bound to kiss again?”
“I’m saying, if the possibility exists, you shouldn’t make promises against it. I am your beau, after all.”
At his wink, a true swoon threatened to overtake her. Another inside joke? Or did he not consider it humorous at all? Was there truly a possibility for them?
“You can’t court her. It’s unprofessional.” Detective Lawson’s reprimand, harsh and unyielding, came from behind Abraham.
The teasing dropped from Abraham’s expression, and he stepped aside, creating distance between them and a clear view to his partner. “We’re not courting. It was a jest in reference to a reporter’s interpretation of my escorting Lydia to break her contract.”
“Reporter? What—” Detective Lawson’s scowl swung toward her. “Wait. You’ve broken your contract? The one for more Billy Poe novels?”
“I have. There will be no more Billy Poe or romance novels from me.”
He stared at her as if not comprehending.
“There can’t be more bodies if I don’t write any more books. I should’ve never written them in the first place.”
He blinked at Abraham. “And you allowed her to do this?”
“Of course. I encouraged it, even.”
Detective Lawson massaged his forehead for a moment, then gestured for them to walk toward Plane Manor. “You are young and shortsighted. If we don’t catch Poe before he fulfills the other novels, we will have no way to predict his next victim.”
