He’d resisted the urge to go through every one of her other text conversations and set down the phone, yanked on his Nikes, and gone for a run. He’d been on his third mile when the dog had taken him down. If Autumn Jones had been anywhere in the vicinity, he hadn’t seen her. He hadn’t been able to see anything but that damn penis, the pic taken in a restroom, khakis and dress shoes underneath it.
The image had disappeared from his mind when he’d been knocked on the ground, the dog exuberantly happy, his wet tongue swiping over every nook and cranny of Declan’s face, his breath horrible, saliva-dripping, dirty paws firmly planted on his chest. Then, there had been the deafening noise of the engine. The rigid shudder of the impact. The heat from the fire.
Nicola had been waiting for him at the hospital, her face pinched in concern, that treacherous phone gripped against her chest, with no idea of what he’d seen. It wasn’t until after the tests, his minor scrapes and burns patched up, that he had confronted her with the truth and ended things.
Now, he sat at his office and clicked past photos of the crash. Miraculously enough, the pilot had lived, along with his nine-year-old daughter, who he’d pulled free of the cockpit, despite his broken back. The plane had nosedived into an SUV, pushing the vehicle into a home, the left wing taking out the mid-century modern’s dining and living room. He clicked forward, the newspaper’s photos giving him a close-up view of the charred Highlander, the deep tracks in the lawn, the black scorch marks from the fire.
In all of the madness, he hadn’t taken the time to think through what would have happened if the dog hadn’t tackled him. If he had followed the path he had taken on his prior laps, he would have continued down the street until the dead end, then turned left and gone up the hill. Unfortunately, Autumn Jones was correct. Had he continued straight, and been twenty yards farther, he would have been directly in the path of the plane.
Or… he could have stopped to tie his shoe. Or stretched. Or decided to pull out his phone and end things with Nicola right there. There was no guarantee that fate wouldn’t have intervened in a dozen other ways than that stupid dog.
On the nineteenth photo in the slideshow, he saw Autumn. On the edge of the frame, lying on the ground, a paramedic bent over her. She hadn’t mentioned getting hurt, and he frowned, zooming in on the photo and trying to see her injury.
“Hey.” Nate appeared in the doorway. “Lunch is here. And we have that call with Benta at two.”
Declan nodded. “Give me a second.” The next picture was an aerial shot of the crash, the plane dominating the shot, him and Autumn gone by the time the photo was taken. He frowned, remembering his own trajectory, then examined the aerial photo closer, zooming in on the dog’s yard, the gate still open in the pic.
What had prompted Autumn to open the dog’s gate? Why would someone do that? He knew that dog, had run by it a dozen times before. He had always thought it was dangerous, as—he assumed—she had as well. For a woman so obsessed with safety, the prudent thing would have been to lock the gate tighter, not let the damn thing out. They were both lucky it had been friendly and not the snarling attack dog it always appeared to be.
He found her sister’s house on the map, the crash in between the dog’s gate and her split-level ranch. He frowned. Had Autumn been on her way back, or on her way out? If she’d been on her way home… he ran his fingers along the path, her journey to release the dog one that would have taken her a few minutes.
Technically, if she hadn’t detoured to release the Great Dane, she herself could have been passing by the Highlander, directly in the path of the plane.
She was so convinced that she had saved his life, but was it possible that letting out the dog had also saved hers?
Eleven hours of design work, and his back was screaming in protest. Declan leaned back, then threw the ball forward, watching as it hit the garage door and bounced back, ricocheting off the driveway and into his hand. He repeated the motion, shuffling left to catch the bounce. He thought of his dining room table, covered with their marked-up plans, and groaned. They had at least another two hours of work before they could call this a day. Still, despite the long hours and hellacious reworks, it was exciting work—fueled by Nate’s exuberance for the project. Thanks to Bridget’s sleuthing, they now knew the full scope of Benta Aldrete’s purposes for the space—an erotic playground for her family’s online sexual matchmaking enterprise. It had certainly amped up the entertainment factor in their sketches, as well as decimated any chances of Nate losing interest in their client. Still, Benta Aldrete had shown an incredible ability to resist his charms, a stonewall that was only encouraging the man.
They were both going through a rough streak. It’d been three days since he had fallen into Autumn Jones’ bed and she hadn’t so much as blinked in his direction. No glimpses of her at Starbucks, no blonde hair flashing through his peripheral vision… nothing.
“Just give up and call her.” Nate tilted back in a lawn chair, a bright green Gatorade bottle in hand.
“Nah.” Declan scooped down to catch a low bounce. He couldn’t call her. She should be calling him. She owed him an apology. Blinded by a buzz and the impact of her beauty, he’d been pretty cool over her delusion of guardian angelship. That allowance hadn’t given her free rein to plow over any boundaries and elbow her way into his personal space with three earpiece-wearing strangers. He shook his head. “She’s too invasive for me.”
“She’s been crazy, man. You can’t suddenly be surprised at that.” Nate swatted at a wandering fly. “Let’s discuss the bigger situation.”
“Which is what?” Declan turned and tossed him the ball without warning, Nate dropping the bottle to catch it.
“That you didn’t deliver the dick properly. Three days without her calling you?” He lifted one eyebrow. “That’s a sign.”
Declan held up his hand for the ball, shaking off the insult with a smile. Autumn Jones may be stubborn as hell when it came to apologizing, but there was no way that a disappointing night in bed was the cause for her silence. That bed had almost caught on fire from their chemistry. He tried to push away the memory of her body, curving and flexing beneath his, her soft moans and gasps… hell, his back still carried the marks of her nails. She’d been a sexual animal, which had been an unexpected surprise, one he hadn’t been able to get out of his head. Distracted at the thought, he missed the ball when Nate threw it back.
“Brush it off,” Nate called after him. “We can’t all be blessed with raw sexual talent.”
“Says the guy who can’t close Benta Aldrete.” The ball rolled under a bush, and Declan moved into the push-up position and reached out, swiping at it. “Not that I want you to,” he called. As talented as Nate was at landing women, he was even more skilled at tossing them aside.
“Hey,” Nate called out. “Don’t talk shit about my future wife. We’re a work in progress. And getting back to you, you need to sort it out ASAP. I’m not having you mope through this weekend.”
Declan stood up, swinging his arm in the socket to loosen up the muscle. “What’s this weekend?”
Nate glared at him. “Come on. My birthday. The hunting camp. Beer. Steaks. Skeet.” He waited for Declan to respond, his face falling at the blank expression. “There’s no way you forgot this.”
“I didn’t forget it,” Declan lied, his mind riffling through all of the work he’d have to finish before they left. Normally, he’d enjoy a chance to get out in the woods and blow off some steam. But his mind was too twisted over Autumn and this project. Wasting a weekend on Nate’s stories and shooting … sounded like hell.
Nate got that look in his eye, the one that typically preceded a terrible idea. “Maybe you could invite your girl. Flex your masculinity some. Impress her.”
Your girl. He would wager a guess that Autumn wouldn’t be in love with that moniker. He squinted at Nate. “You want Autumn, the ‘crazy bitch’ as you’ve referred to her, to come with us on your birthday weekend?”
He started to argue that fact, but Nate had already given him three days’ worth of grief over the fact that he considered Declan to be smitten. That was the actual word he’d used—over-used—as he had tortured every detail of the night out of him. Well, not every detail. He was, despite all the evidence to the contrary, a gentleman.
He threw the ball toward the garage door, and mused over the idea of inviting Autumn to the camp. “It’d be awkward, the three of us.”
“You’re right.” Nate was as transparent as glass as he ‘pondered’ their dilemma and then ‘came up’ with a solution. “I could convince Benta to stay over for the weekend. It could be fun.”
“No,” Declan said flatly, catching the ball and slinging it back with more aggression than necessary. “I’d like to actually keep this client until we finish and are paid.”
“Dude. It’s my birthday. I don’t want to sit in the fucking woods and stare at you and your girlfriend all weekend.”
This is how people died. He turned to Nate, ready to shove that Gatorade bottle down his throat, and stopped at the wide grin on his face. The issue was, he was impossible to be mad at. It was the most infuriating quality about the guy, yet the one that saved their asses more times than anything. He pointed at Nate and struggled to keep his own smile off his face. “Listen to me when I say that you cannot fuck up this Benta Aldrete situation. Do you understand?”
Nate spread his arms in a ‘surrender’ gesture. “Never planned on it.”
Right. He never did. Declan turned back to the garage, swinging his arms and fighting against the knot of tension between his shoulder blades. Should he invite Autumn to the camp? It wasn’t likely she’d come. With her silence, and complete absence from his life, she had likely moved on from him altogether, and found another charity project to shower with care and protective actions. Inviting her would be the worst thing to do right now, and would reopen the door to let the crazy back in.
Only… he kind of liked her crazy. He wasn’t smitten. Nate was wrong about that, despite all of his knowing glances and I’ve known you for fifteen years bullshit. He wasn’t smitten, but he did want more of her. Was she mental? Probably. But if someone was going to be off-her-rocker about one thing, this was a pretty good flaw. It was like being overly neat—an affliction Nicola had stamped on him more times than he could count. Or overly loyal.
So, what if she did truly believe that she was tasked with protecting him? So what? It was kind of nice to have someone so utterly devoted to maintaining your safety and well-being. The way she had examined him outside that bar, such concern in her features… it had been sweet. Warm. Touching. Assuming she hadn’t moved on to someone else, it’d be nice to have that focus swung back in his direction.
But she’d never agree to go to the camp. It was too dangerous. Guns. Poison Ivy. Splinter possibilities everywhere. Some rare tick that caused sudden death.
He smiled at the thought, then realized the truth of the matter—the surefire way to get her to go would be because it was dangerous. If she really thought that she had some unique ability to ward off danger, she would feel obligated to go.
It was like holding a secret weapon. Would using it be evil? Probably. Manipulative? Yes. Was having her there worth it?
He rolled the tennis ball through his fingers and slowly warmed to the idea.
25
Out of every hobby imaginable, scrapbooking is one of the safest. The scissors are the most dangerous part of it. Get over-enthusiastic with your cutting, and you might nip off part of a finger. The glue is another danger zone, but you have to be intentionally reckless to sniff yourself to death.
I sat at the dining room table, dangerous glue bottle in hand, and carefully laid down a white line for the border, which I planned to highlight using a glittery silver rope. On the radio, Sam Cooke crooned. I really loved Sam Cooke, but talk about an unromantic way to die. Shot by a hotel manager after attempting to rape a girl. Or, if you believed the theories, set up by a prostitute, robbed, and then shot by a hotel manager. Either way, had the man been at home with his sweet little wife? He wouldn’t have died. I pressed a heart to the construction paper, holding it in place while it dried.
I rolled my bare feet along Mr. Oinks’ belly and listened to him snore.
It was very boring, not having Declan Moss to protect. My worry still ran through my head, but without knowing where he was, and what he was doing… I didn’t have much to worry about. I felt hopeless, being so far away from him. I closed my eyes, a dull headache still lingering, despite the 800 mg of Ibuprofen I’d taken. What if my head went haywire right here? What would I do? I had no idea where Declan was. The best I could do would be to get in my car, head in the direction of his office, and likely die of an aneurysm on the way.
If Ansley were here, she’d tell me that I was an idiot. She’d point out, if I did have this hypothetical power of danger prediction, that it wasn’t necessarily confined to Declan. Maybe I could protect anyone in sudden danger. Then again, I’d only gotten the piercing pain and nausea spells three times. Once, the day of the plane crash. And then three weeks ago, right before Declan stepped in front of that truck. And then a small episode at the bar, during the fight.
Three instances. All with Declan. My head still hurt just from the memory of it. I rubbed my forehead, nursing my current headache and wondered if there were lingering side effects of this condition.
Beside me, my phone sat, silent. I could call him. He’d left his business card on my bedside table, his cell phone circled in one of Paige’s red magic markers. In a normal situation, I would have called him already. Thanked him for his return of my heels, and apologized for bringing the men over without having a middle-of-the-day, fully awake, conversation about it.
But… there was the slight issue of our sex. Lots and lots of thrusting. Kissing. Bodies rubbing. Moaning. I crossed my legs together to try and satisfy the ache of desire that bloomed at the memory. It wouldn’t have been so bad if I hadn’t been so…. I paused, half of the silver cord put into place, and tried to find the right adjective. Carnal? Ravenous? Jenna Jamesony? Let’s face it. If I’d had a cowboy hat handy, I would have been whooping and waving that thing in the air, a bridle quickly fashioned out of my bra straps.
I’d been an embarrassment to guardian angels everywhere. How could I ever attempt to have a serious conversation with him about his personal safety when he knew what I tasted like? Oh God. I dropped my head down on the page without thinking, my forehead landing smack in the middle of a dab of glitter paint.
Even if I pushed the guardian angel stuff aside and just focused on bare womanhood, there was a precedent set. Mom hadn’t taught me much, short of the atomic weight of Mercury, but she had ingrained a few rules in me from the time I could talk.
Chewing gum in public is tacky. She once elbowed me so hard that I fell over, to point out a Mercedes-driving blonde with a mouthful of Big Red. Tacky was a word she liked to use a lot. Miracle Whip was also tacky. And ripped jeans. And convertibles. And hoop earrings and scrunchies.
Always pass the salt with the pepper. I once skipped this rule at Sonny’s BBQ, and mom threw the salt shaker at my wrist. It was a heavy glass one, the sort that pairs with a pepper grinder, and left a swollen black bruise for a week. That was around the time that Ansley and I started to realize Mom was a little off her rocker.
Women don’t call men. Period. If there was an occasion where we needed to speak, they could figure that out and call us. Granted, this rule only applied during the courtship period and could be abandoned without thought once a relationship had progressed to commitment, but should be picked back up during times of fighting or punishable male behavior. But after a date? It was always the man’s job to call a woman. On a holiday? Man’s job. If your roof had caved in and you needed assistance from the hunk
y next-door neighbor? He had eyes. He could damn well figure out what a damsel in distress was.
Obviously salt shakers and chewing gum didn’t apply here. But I had always agreed with her firm stance on not calling men. Of course, I was also approaching thirty and single, so it was entirely possible that said firm stance was kryptonite in today’s female-empowered dating environment.
I lifted up my head and eyed the phone, willing it to ring. My phone number was listed. He had access to the Internet. Three seconds of searching, and he’d have it in hand.
I rubbed at my forehead, the glitter addition stubborn, and licked my finger to give it more oomph.
Maybe he was busy. Working away, designing someone’s next office complex. I uncapped a bright purple marker and began to fill in the page’s title. Maybe I should become an architect. How hard could that degree be? You’re just drawing stuff. Adding eaves. Creating little squares and labeling them MASTER BEDROOM and KITCHEN. Tilting back my chair, I snuck a sniff of the grape-scented marker and envisioned it. I could work in his firm. Be an apprentice. Establish clear evacuation and emergency plans while keeping an eye on him.
The doorbell rang and Mr. Oinks slipped and skittered along the tile in an attempt to get to his feet. I caught a glimpse of his cute little hooves before he knocked my chair over and I slammed backward against the tile.
Ouch. I lay there for a moment, assessing my injuries. My head was saved, though the impact had kicked up my headache a notch. The high-backed chair had seriously dented my shoulder blades and my knee had knocked against the table, an impact that was still vibrating through me.
Mr. Oinks began to jump against the front door. The doorbell rang again and I groaned in response and attempted to roll to one side. “Just leave it, Don!” I called out, listening to Mr. Oinks work himself into a lather. “I don’t need to sign it!”
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