But as I lock up the clinic and head home to pack, the awareness isn't going anywhere. I noticed the way he moved closer when he spoke to me. The way my pulse kicked up when he held my gaze. Pretending otherwise is pointless.
The drive through town doesn’t take long. Main Street is quiet as evening settles in. A few trucks parked outside Sadie'scafé. Someone walking a dog. Normal life continuing while everything around me shifts into something dangerous and unknown.
I turn onto the road leading to my cottage, trees pressing close on both sides. This far from the center of town, the isolation feels different. Heavier. Tomorrow I'll be leaving all of this—the familiar routes, the patients who've trusted me for years, the carefully constructed life I built after David died.
For a girl I've known for a very short time. And a man who makes me forget all the reasons I swore I'd never let anyone that close again.
I've called my cottage my home for the past decade. Simple. Quiet. Exactly what I needed after my husband died and the city felt too loud, too full of memories.
I pull a duffel from the closet and start packing. Practical clothing for travel. Medical supplies in case Traci needs anything. I check the Glock's magazine, verify the action, pack it in the side pocket where I can reach it quickly if needed.
The reality settles over me as I zip the bag. Tomorrow morning I'm leaving everything familiar to protect a girl I met weeks ago. Putting myself in a vehicle heading into potential danger. Spending hours in close quarters in a compound with a man who makes me feel things I haven't felt since David died. And we're about to deceive federal agents—lie directly to their faces about where we're taking the only witness who can identify the man they call the Marshal.
Because wanting anything in the middle of this situation is a distraction neither of us can afford. Wanting him specifically—a man barely holding himself together, carrying damage I can see every time he moves—is beyond foolish.
But tomorrow morning, we'll be in a small convoy heading for Finn's compound while federal agents think we're cooperating with their plan. Hours of proximity. Hours of hispresence filling whatever space we occupy. Somewhere out there, Gary Kern is probably reporting back to the network that someone in Glacier Hollow isn't giving him the information he needs.
And I'm about to spend hours in close quarters with a man who makes me forget why distance matters.
I'm not sure which threat I'm less prepared for.
