Breathing hard, I stare in her eyes, forcing myself to calm down so she doesn’t go from angry to scared.
“Sweetheart.” I rest my forehead against hers. “Please do me a huge favor and do not scream unless someone is actually in here attacking you.”
“How was I supposed to know you weren’t dangerous?”
“I am dangerous. Don’t forget that.” I breathe the words against her damp hair.
She lets me hold her for a moment then breaks the silence. “I need to change and take Pepper out.”
“I’ll do it,” I offer.
“Dress me?”
I peer at her. “Take your useless dog out.”
“She’s not useless.”
“She’s a corgi, not a guard dog. You need a German shepherd. And a gun.”
Pepper races away from me and tries to hide under the carpet.
“Let him take you out, Pepper—you can handle it. These floors are very expensive.”
Pepper really doesn’t think she can. But I carry her away from my pristine lawn to the edge of the tree line. Then ittakes me and several staff members awhile to clean her paws and dry her off.
The dog is an angry ball of fluff tucked under my arm when I return her to Mandy.
My assistant is curled up in the bed, her hair half hiding her face, wearing one of my old shirts that Linton must have had brought to the room. Pepper immediately rushes over to flop next to her.
I can’t resist. I brush back the brown curls on Mandy’s cheek.
All I want to do is crawl in next to her, wrap my arms around her, and tuck her smaller body against mine.
Except that isn’t who I am.
Instead, I stand in front of the sliding-glass doors, looking out over the dark and the rain, keeping watch, keeping her safe.
21
MANDY
He’s not there when I wake up.
I must have dreamt it, the shadowy figure silhouetted against the window as the storm pounded outside, keeping watch over me.
Even though I’d just been chased and had to run for my life, I didn’t have any stress dreams—the ones where Jaxon is waiting in the back seat of my car or hiding in one of my cupboards or under my bed and I don’t realize he’s there.
I slept soundly, feeling safe and for once not waking up in a panic.
I pull my hair out of my mouth and untwist the soft, good-smelling T-shirt I’m wearing. I inhale deeply. It smells like Salinger.
“Oh my gosh.” I start hyperventilating. I’m wearing his shirt. I’m wearing Salinger Svensson’s, my boss’s shirt, and itsmells exactly like him—earthy undertones of ancient moss, crisp evergreen, and driftwood.
Before I can start drooling, since clearly I’m about to lose it, I throw back the covers and yelp.
I’m wearing his boxers—that has to be what these are.
My inner teenage girl opens her mouth, ready to scream.
