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Palms over her face, she listened to his fading footsteps until she couldn’t hear anything but her own blood rushing in her ears.

***

He shouldn’t have touched her.

But being in the same house with her, hearing her hum as she went from room to room, feeling her presence sink deeper into him, had proved too much. After months of blackout silence, he’d expected her presence to grate. Somehow, it didn’t. Alone in his room, he’d crunched on cold cereal and listened to Addison clean up in the kitchen until he couldn’t take it anymore.

Cutting the power in the house, he’d stalked her to her bedroom, hating himself for wanting her.

One more breath, one more kiss, and he’d been about to sink into her, to take her bare and feral in the dark. Thank God he’d been reminded of who she was. The sister of the man responsible for the damage to his face, to his life.

Something reeked. Was that him?

When was the last time he’d really showered?

He’d do quick rinses after his workouts, but he could never muster enough energy for more than that. Now that he thought about it, he couldn’t recall the last time he’d washed his hair, and it had been forever since he’d shaved.

He wasn’t getting cleaned up because she was there.

But a thorough, soapy shower wouldn’t hurt.

Stepping into the glass stall, he let the hot water cascade over his shoulders. Before, he’d kept his hair short. As a young professor, he couldn’t afford to look like one of the undergrads. That didn’t matter now.

He missed his students. He missed teaching. Hell, he even missed the food at the Faculty Club.

Pumping out shampoo, he ran it through his tangled hair. He needed to cut it. It fell past his shoulders and constantly annoyed him, but the length was necessary. It hid the rough patches where they’d stitched him back together.

Stepping out of the glass stall, he was surprised to find himself not as exhausted as he’d expected, even after all the shampooing. Maybe he was, month by month, getting some of his energy back. After he finished toweling off, he walked into his room and reached into the closet for a button-down.

Wrong.

He hadn’t dressed up in years. Wasn’t about to do so now.

Stalking to the dresser, he grabbed his usual—an old T-shirt and sweatpants. His uniform for too many years now. Not that it mattered. It wasn’t like he had a job to go to, or people to see.

His hair left an annoying wet spot on his upper back despite the vigorous toweling.

How long did Addison intend to stay at his house? And why the hell did she have to be so damn likeable?

Chapter 19

A week after her arrival, Addison had Oliver’s routine memorized to the minute.

Wake up at ten a.m. Breakfast in his room. Some days he’d venture downstairs to raid the fridge for lunch, but most days he’d stay away until dinnertime. Then he’d appear just long enough to grab something before retreating upstairs again, gripping whatever he scavenged as though it were a lifeline.

Sometimes he lingered—watching her like he wanted to say something, like he wanted to stay. But escape always won.

Neither one brought up what had happened. She wasn’t even sure she had the words.

After dinner, he’d spend twenty minutes in the gym, Beethoven and Vivaldi seeping through the ceiling. Then a quick shower. By nine p.m., he was asleep.

With a half hour left before her own bedtime, she surveyed her textbook options on the shelves in the living room. Somehow, she’d missed a thin volume of Greek mythology earlier. Score. A much more interesting read than anything else the book collection provided. Equipped with her new read, she marched to the kitchen for a cup of herbal tea to take to bed with her.

Outside, a sound like a scrape amplified in the rural silence. Someone was out there, but who? She considered getting Oliver, but what good would that do? The man was long asleep—most likely naked.

Now that was an image she shouldn’t be picturing.

A door slam.