Page 8 of Until You

CHAPTER THREE

Tennyson

My hands tremble as I stare at the letter. My name and address in scribbled handwriting. The lack of a return address. The postage meter showing it was sent locally.

A personal letter.

But there’s no one who knows where I am to send one. No one who knows I’m even alive, unless . . .

Panic has me dropping the rest of the bills on the table and tearing into the envelope, my heart in my throat, and the acrid taste of fear on my tongue.

The chuckle I emit is part hysteria, part relief, when I pull the letter out, only to find it’s an invitation to help organize Redemption Falls Founder’s Day from Bobbi Jo Simmons, the town’s self-proclaimed socialite.

Founder’s Day.

That’s it?

“Jesus,” I mutter with a shake of my head. Talk about overreacting.

I’ve learned to live with the paranoia. To place it on the back burner of my mind only to resurface when someone I don’t know looks at me a little too long or when the phone rings and there’s that slight delay before the salesperson on the other end speaks. And as I learned just now, when I receive handwritten letters.

But the fact that the letter is harmless doesn’t do anything to abate the panic attack still rioting through my body—hands shaking, heart racing, head dizzying. I walk unsteadily over to an apothecary cabinet I have in the family room and open the top drawers, looking for my prescription to help settle me.

The first one is empty.

I rifle through the second drawer with one hand while opening the third—and the picture I forgot I’d placed in there months ago stops me dead in my tracks. It’s of a different time. A different place. A different me.

My hair is light, blonde, and it’s weird how I suddenly remember how much time it used to take at the salon to get it that color.

But it’s not me I stare at.

It’s the man standing at my side. His dark hair, a little long, curls over his expensive suit jacket’s collar. His olive skin only serves to deepen his brown eyes and make the brilliance of his smile that much brighter.

Kaleo.

The man I thought walked on water.

Until I found out it was just the opposite.

I remember that night like it was yesterday. The party and its extravagance. The company—A-list movie stars, Fortune 500 businessmen, magnates of industry. The way everyone looked at us.

Memories I’d prefer I didn’t have. Memories I’m supposed to pretend never happened.

I flip the picture over and shove it back in the drawer.

My breath is steadier now, my head clearer, but my pulse still thunders out of control.

Screw the prescription and bring on the wine.

That’s what I need.

A nice rosé to sip and enjoy while I figure out what to make for dinner—if I make anything—because I’m not against a bowl of ice cream for dinner every now and then.

And tonight might just be one of those nights because I’ve been so busy with work, I’ve put off going to the grocery store for far too long. If there was a contest on what is the oldest thing in your refrigerator, I could probably win at this point.

The problem? When I open my freezer and pull out the container of ice cream, there’s only a spoonful left.

That pat on the back I gave myself for having restraint and not finishing off the carton the last time I had some just came around to bite me in the ass.