“Your cheek might be sore. Let me get you ice so it doesn’t bruise.” He heads back into the kitchen and pulls a bag of frozen corn out of his freezer, walking it over. “Here, put this on your face.”
Then he returns to the kitchen and pulls a half-gallon of milk from the fridge. I touch the corn to my cheek and watch him stick a pot on the stove, click it on, and pour milk in.
Now’s my chance to run. Run from this… really not scary man? And run where? I’m not sure I could even make it to where I ditched my car. My car, which is shit in the snow, even though I live in Maine. At least I’m wearing sturdy boots.
Fuck, it’s really snowing out now.
There’s literally nowhere to go. I made a series of terribledecisions today, and now I have an aching cheek, sore wrists, and I’m sitting on the couch of this mystery dude, trapped here by snow. At least I’m no longer tied to a chair.
I consider my options.
I could leave anyway, fight my way to my car, and hope I can get off the side of the road. Maybe he’d let me, maybe he wouldn’t. He’s unhinged in a confusing way. Like he’ll stab a woman with a needle and tie her to a chair, but then feel bad when said woman complains that her wrists hurt.
And why does he look so fucking good in the gray sweatpants and the snug hoodie that’s hugging the hard lines of his body? He scoops hot chocolate mix into the pot where he poured the milk and pulls a whisk out of a drawer.
I shake my head. It doesn’t matter how hot he is. Besides the fact that he’s a kidnapper, I could never trust another man to keep me safe. I should never have depended on anyone to do so.
Shane kept me in my place, but not safe. He might not have hit me, but the gaslighting and the emotional abuse were intense. Over the years, he continued to try to convince me to have a baby, and when I resisted, called me selfish, a bad person, not a real woman, etc. Even right before my father died, Shane tricked me into meeting with my father’s boss about working on the family’s bookkeeping—as if that were something I’d ever want to do over my peaceful, safe library job. Luckily, the man let it go when I said no. But Shane flipped out and disappeared for a weekend. A few days later, someone slashed my tires, and Shane refused to give me a ride to work. I could walk or take the bus anyway.
That same week, I found a scrap of women’s underwear shoved into the pocket of his jeans.
I contacted Hawk—Wes—so I could find Shane for the last time and be ridof him forever.
Maybe he’ll still help me do that.
“I need to find the man I want to divorce,” I say. “Can you help me?”
Wes freezes in the kitchen with his back to me, mid-whisk.
“Tell me more,” he says, turning around to look at me.
Chapter 7
Seriously, Single
WES
I’m not sure me helping her is a good idea. Domestic disputes like this can be so messy. And domestic disputes that involve the Callahan family? Extra messy. Also, I’m already not quite in control of how my body is reacting to her. It’s just a physical attraction, obviously.
“How’d you lose track of him?” I sneak a look at her while I briskly whisk the hot chocolate, making sure all the cocoa mix dissolves as the milk heats.
Callie scoffs.
Sir Fluffy appears in the kitchen, stretching his legs, likely fresh from a power nap in his favorite spot in front of the heater in the guest bedroom. He meows and weaves himself in and out of my legs, begging for a treat or pets.
“You have a cat.”
“I do.” I glance over at her. “You’re not allergic, are you?”
She narrows her eyes at me. “Why do you care?”
When I do interact with women, even pretty ones, I’m often met with flirting and interested, lingering gazes. This suspicion bordering on hostility is intriguing. Like shealready doesn’t like me, so I don’t have to worry about impressing her. Maybe it was the zip ties.
“Noah is allergic, so he has to take daily allergy medicine and get shots so he can even walk in here.”
“Noah?”
“My brother.” I stop whisking and make sure the hot chocolate is lump-free. It smells delicious. “Do you have a cat?”
