Toward me.
Our eyes meet.
Even from this distance—fifty yards, maybe more—I feel the impact of it like a fist to the sternum.
She sees me.
And I see her seeing me, the recognition hit, her whole body goes rigid with the understanding that she’s standing on my land and I’m watching her and there’s nowhere, nowhere,nowhereshe can hide.
My hand presses harder against the glass.
The cold seeps into my palm, but it does nothing to cool the heat building in my chest.
For a long moment, neither of us moves.
The sun is dying behind me, painting everything gold, and she's standing in my driveway like something I conjured out of eight years of desire.
She looks away first.
Good girl.
She always was smart.
Always knew, on some level, what I was.
What I wanted.
That's why she ran—not because she was afraid of me, but because she was afraid of herself.
Afraid of how her body responded when I got too close, how her pulse jumped when I held her gaze too long.
She felt it too.
She's always felt it.
I watch her disappear into the guest house and close the door behind her.
Something in my chest pulls tight, a wire stretched to the point of snapping.
She's so close now. Close enough that I could walk down there, knock on her door, pull her into my arms and never let go.
But I've waited eight years. I can wait a little longer.
I turn from the window and cross to my desk.
The study is exactly as my father left it.
Dark wood paneling, leather chairs, bookshelves lined with first editions he never read.
I used to hate this room.
Hated the smell of his cigars, the sound of his voice, the way the walls seemed to close in whenever he summoned me here to explain some failure, some disappointment, some way I'd fallen short of being the son he wanted.
Now the room is mine. Everything is mine.
And soon, she will be too.
I sit down, pull open the bottom drawer, and take out the file.
