by Jenna Mills
Fling.
With.
The hot coach.
Just the thought, the images—the memories—that immediately fired to life, sent a dark and forbidden breath swirling through me. Nights alone at his house. Sitting in his favorite chair and curling up with a blanket that smelled of soap and sandalwood. Waking to find him standing quietly in the shadows. “I’ve known him since I was twelve years old.”
“You’re not twelve anymore.”
Suddenly, stupidly nervous, I focused on my chai tea.
“And I’m right, aren’t I? You have so thought about it.”
I pressed my lips together, but the images kept right on flooding, the smiles and the innocent touches, the late night talks, the time I’d broken down in tears and he’d folded me into his arms.
It had all seemed so natural and…innocent.
Except—
Maybe—
Somewhere—
In those dark…
Forbidden…
Shadows…
I never—
Let—
Myself—
Look at…
Too closely.
“You’ve wondered,” Lexi said, jarring me back into the moment. “I know you have. You’ve wondered what it would be like to take a chance, to stop being Miss Apple Pie and live a little.”
Something hard and dark twisted through me. Of course, I wasn’t the only one who’d noticed how good looking our coach was. All the girls on the team talked about him. More than one paraded around in the skimpiest lycra and sports bra they could find.
“What is that supposed to mean?” I asked anyway.
“You know. The girl next door. Everyone’s best friend. Never open doors you’re not supposed to or color outside the lines. How’s that worked out for you so far? Where’s that gotten you?”
Her words, the truth behind them, hurt, hurt in ways I’d never imagined possible. I wanted to tell her she was wrong, that she didn’t get it. Didn’t understand.
But the words wouldn’t form.
Because instead I saw Josh, and Heather. I saw the letters.
And betrayal stabbed all over again.
“Look, I’m not saying sleep with him,” Lexi went on, “though that would definitely be amazing, unless…” Her eyes widened. “Omigod, you’re not a virgin, are you? Please tell me you and Josh at least did that.”
The wave of cold hit me so hard, from the inside, the out.
“Okay, good,” she said, leaving me to wonder what was written all over my face. “Just checking. So, you know…do what Zoe does with Dr. Soul Shredder and Detective BadAss. Next time you’re babysitting, stare into his eyes. Brush up against him. Pour your heart out to him—treat him like a hero—or better yet, a god. Make it clear he hung your moon. No man can resist that, and nothing will crush Asshat Josh faster.”
She made everything sound like a game. “Zoe went through something horrible,” I reminded. “She could have been killed.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. And Detective BadAss caught the bad guy,” she added, sounding more than a little bored with the whole thing. “And Dr. Do-Good is there for her, like no one else. She’s definitely got the damsel-in-distress routine down.”
I wasn’t about to point out how jealous Lexi sounded.
“But what she doesn’t get is how pathetic and transparent she is,” she rolled on. “Some day poor little Someone-Tried-To-Kill-Me will realize there’s nothing special about her. Offer a man a good time, no strings attached—and he’s yours. It’s not that hard. I could take either of them from her so fast—and so could you.”
“If I’m pathetic enough?” I shot back, half teasing—half not.
“No,” she said. “If you want Josh to leave you alone badly enough. You could have any of them—Dr. Rivers, Detective Cooper, or…Coach—don’t look now, he’s on his way over—Grimes.”
Everything flashed. I twisted around, and there he was, walking right toward us.
Toward me.
Chapter 3
IT WAS CRAZY how hard my heart thrummed. Seeing him was hardly anything out of the ordinary. I’d been babysitting for him for over six years. I’d seen him first thing in the morning and late at night, dirty and unshaven and dressed for an evening on the town. I’d fallen asleep on his sofa. He’d woken me up and taken me home, sitting so close to me in the front seat of his restored Corvette that our thighs practically touched. Over the past couple of years, we’d run together every other Sunday.
But thanks to Lexi, a hot flush ran through me as I looked up, and my eyes met his. He smiled.
“A little after nine still work?” he asked.
Lexi made a muffled coughing sound.
“Yeah,” I said, hating the unintended pounding of my heart. I babysat for his girls almost weekly.
His eyes crinkled, held. “Don’t know what I’d do without you.”
And then he was gone, leaving me sitting there, dazed, while Lexi leaned back and smiled.
In Boulder, it’s easy to tell how much money you have based upon where you live. It’s probably like that most places, where there’s a part that screams loaded, and a part of town that cries not-as-loaded. It was definitely that way in Boulder, except even our not-as-nice areas were still nice compared to a lot of other towns.
After leaving the coffee shop, I drove north, to one of the oldest neighborhoods in town. The closer I got to the Mapleton District, with its wide streets and perfectly manicured lawns, the more gorgeous the houses became. When I was younger, coming to Coach Grimes’s house for the first time, I remember thinking it was a mansion.
It was hardly a high school history teacher/coach kind of place, but that’s where his wife came in. Jillian Grimes was one of those petite, picture-ready women who always looked perfect whether she was working out or going to a cocktail party, which they did a lot of. The money came through her. Not only was she an attorney, but her father and grandfather were, too. With its steep roofline, dark shutters, and leaded glass windows, the dark bricked house looked like a manor plucked straight from a sprawling English moor.
As dusk deepened into night, I turned onto the street lined by graceful silver maples, swung into the circular drive, and parked behind Coach Grimes’s ‘vette.
The massive, castle-like front door opened before I reached the porch, and Coach Grimes stepped into the twinkling light of the twin gas lamps. He was dressed for one of his late-night workouts, when I watched the girls if his wife was on a business trip: in black athletic shorts and a neon green t-shirt. He was a workout kind of guy, sometimes in the gym, sometimes on the streets, lots of times in the mountains. The girls on the cross country team called him Coach Adrenaline.
Josh had never liked me babysitting for him.
“Sorry I’m a few minutes late,” I said, hurrying toward him. Smiling, I lifted my eyes to his, like I’d done so many times before, but this time Lexi’s words whispered through me, bringing with them this warm swirl of…
I didn’t know. I didn’t know what it was that slipped around inside of me, like a quiet, unexpected invasion. Awareness, maybe. Curiosity. Guilt.
Despite the fact that Mitch Grimes was the kind of man who stood a little too close and held your gaze a little too long, the fact that he could make you flush with nothing more than a slow smile, he was also my coach—or at least he had been. Even if that didn’t necessarily make him off-limits, he was also married with kids. So while Lexi’s advice/challenge might be exactly what I needed to obliterate the restrictive lines I’d always been content to live behind and boldly move on with my life, Coach Grimes was not the man.
But there was a quickening anyway, and an awareness I couldn’t deny.
Annoyed, flustered, it took a second to realize I was still staring at him, looking him square in the rich brown of his eyes, as if trying to discern some great truth.
“Are the girls in bed?” I found myself stammering.
He smiled, the razor sharp kind
from countless finish lines at countless races, when his girls cleaned up in Cross Country meets.
“Before you get here?” he asked. “No way.”
His girls, six and eight, were like extra little sisters to me.
We were barely inside the grand foyer, with its marble floors and massive antique chandelier, when two blond, miniature replicas of Jillian Grimes flounced in, gauzy princess nightgowns flowing, and launched themselves at me.
“Miss Emily!” Brinkley, the oldest, exclaimed.
“Missemmie,” her younger sister, Delaney, echoed.
I dropped to my knees and hugged them tight, loving the smell of kid soap and clean hair. When I was with them, it was easy to forget about the past five weeks.
I’m not sure what made me glance up, to where Coach Grimes leaned against the arched entry to the dining room, watching me—us. He was watching us.
“We’ve missed you,” Brinkley said, pulling back to level me with her deep brown eyes—maybe the only feature she’d inherited from her dad.
It was my first night babysitting since before the accident. Coach Grimes had brought the girls to see me in the hospital, but I hadn’t seen them since.
“I’ve missed you, too,” I said, rising and herding them to the family room.
“Emily.”
Halfway to the beautiful Italian sofa, I stopped, hesitating a heartbeat before turning around. Because of his voice, quiet, dead serious, again more like a touch than a sound. It was the tone he used during all those early morning practices, slipping into a low rasp when he most wanted to be heard.
Annoyed with Lexi for putting ridiculous thoughts into my mind, I glanced back.
He stood on the edge of the room, beside an all black grand piano.
“Are you sure?” His eyes met mine. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”
Another quick wave of heat blasted me. It was like he knew, I thought a little crazily. Like he knew exactly what I was thinking.
Except, I wasn’t thinking it.
I wasn’t.
What if Lexi said something to him…I started, but stopped the stupid thought. No way would Lexi have told him anything.
“I don’t have to go anywhere,” he said. “I can stay, if you need me to.”
Confusion blanked me.
“If you need more time.”
What was he talking about?
“It’s barely been a month.”
And then I realized it—the accident. He was talking about the accident.
“No, I’m good,” I told him. “I even ran today for the first time.”
His eyes darkened. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? How do you feel—”
“Amazing,” I said before he could interrogate me any further. “I feel amazing.”
A strange shadow crossed his eyes. “You sure look that way.”
That was a lie, and I knew it. I knew how I looked. I saw myself in the mirror every morning, even when I tried not to look. I saw the shadows in my eyes, and beneath. I saw the paleness of my skin, and the flat line of my mouth. I saw my hair just hanging there. I saw the emptiness I couldn’t stop from leaking, no matter how hard I tried.
“I’ve got this,” I said—or tried to say, but the words came out more breath than sound. “You’re good to go.”
He needed to go. I needed him to.
“Yeah, go!” Delaney echoed. “Missemmie’s here now.”
Finally Coach Grimes smiled. “Shouldn’t be more than two hours. I’m going to hit at least fifteen.”
He was training for a marathon, steadily building up his distance.
“Take your time,” I said as his girls dragged me toward the staircase—but I knew he wouldn’t.
When Coach Grimes ran, he ran. And when he wanted something, he went for it.
I awoke with a start. Heart hammering, I jerked up, disoriented for a moment, the large TV above the fireplace still on, a lamp glowing, but nothing else. It took a second to realize I was still at Coach Grimes’s house, and that I’d fallen asleep on the sofa.
Automatically I looked at the red numbers of the electronic clock on the DVR: 10:27.
More than two hours.
I started to get up, but hung there a moment, the strangest sensation washing over me, the kind you get when you’re not alone. Maybe he was home. Maybe the girls…
Making myself swallow, I started to call out, but an awareness I didn’t understand stopped me.
Paranoia, I told myself. I was being paranoid, uneasy because I’d woken up in a strange place. Not strange, not exactly—I’d been here countless times before. Fallen asleep here. Sometimes spent the night. But all of that had been planned. Tonight, I hadn’t meant to close my eyes.
The concussion, I remembered. The neurologist said little things might be off for months. Maybe that was why I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was there…watching me.
Or maybe it was only a fantasy, that someone was there…watching…
Realizing I was being ridiculous, I distracted myself by reaching for my phone. Seven messages—four from Lexi, one from my mom, one from my little sister, one from Nobody.
I told myself to ignore them all.
I told myself to put the phone down.
But I’d never been very good at doing what was best for me. I had what Dr. Rivers called a habit of punishing myself.
So I pulled up the messages.
And went straight for the one I should have simply deleted.
I don’t know how to let go.
Ten minutes later, I did something else I shouldn’t have done: I went into the kitchen and poured a glass of wine.
I saw him standing beside a tree, just as I had so many times before. Snow was starting to fall, fat fluffy flakes drifting from a heavy grey sky. They danced around him, landing against his hair and his dark green sweater, his jeans and hiking boots.
I stepped toward him, realizing too late the frozen ground was ice. Beneath my feet, the thin sheet fractured—
I came awake hard, before he could shout and lunge for me…before he just stood there and watched. I never knew which version would play out, but had taught myself to break the spell of the dream before I found out. I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want to experience either. I didn’t want him there in my dreams, not in the shadows, or the blinding light of a fresh snow.
I didn’t want him in my memories.
But no matter what I tried, Josh kept coming back.
I lay there on the soft sofa, wrapped in the warmth of Brinkley’s chenille blanket for a long moment. Darkness bled from the windows overlooking the Grecian infinity pool in the backyard, with its artfully placed statuary and flower-laden concrete urns. I wanted to roll to my feet and slip out there, to breathe. I wanted to run. Hard. Fast. Far. Without stopping.
But the girls were asleep upstairs, and from one heartbeat to the next, I realized I wasn’t alone.
Chapter 4
HE SAT ACROSS the room, in one of three formal chairs they’d picked up on a spring trip to Paris. He had a book in one hand, a small glass tumbler in the other. He leaned forward slightly, his long legs bent at the knees and spread. His dark hair was damp—whiskers shadowed his jaw. He wore old faded jeans, not running shorts, a wrinkled grey button down, untucked, instead of his sweaty t-shirt.
And just like I couldn’t stop the dream, I couldn’t stop my eyes from widening—and my breath from tripping over itself.
His smile was slow, lazy almost, self-deprecating. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
I jerked upright, yanking the blanket tighter around me, as if I was naked beneath the soft plush fabric. “You didn’t.” The words rushed out in the same choppy rhythm as my heart.
He was home.
He’d showered, fixed a drink.
And now he sat in the shadows, watching me.
Startled wasn’t the right word.
Earlier I’d sensed something…someone.
“How long have I known yo
u, Emily?” he asked with a soft smile.
It was an odd question, but I automatically knew the answer. “Six years.”
“Since you were twelve,” he said quietly, watching me still, watching me with a soul-shredding intensity that reminded me of Dr. Rivers. “Since you were a young girl with freckles and braids.”
I didn’t like remembering how awkward I’d been back then.
“I’ve watched you grow up,” he said, letting the book, a thick paperback, fall to the rug. Slowly, he rolled the tumbler between his hands. “I’ve watched you mature into a smart, beautiful young lady.”
My mouth went dry. Instinctively I shifted, for the first time realizing just how badly my legs throbbed after running for the first time since the accident.
“I’ve coached you, I’ve pushed you, hard, then even harder, to see how much you could handle…and you never broke. You’re fearless.”
The spell of a dream I could break, yank myself away from, but the way he watched me, spoke to me, wove around me, holding me there, unable to move.
“I know you,” he said. “I know what you can handle.”
I’d been alone with Coach Grimes so many times, in this room while his children slept, in his car when he picked me up or dropped me off, at school in the training room, on the track, on the trails we ran together.
But there was something different about him as he sat there in the soft light of a tall lamp, with shadows drenching his eyes, rolling the glass but, somehow, utterly still.
“And I know when you’re lying.”
The word, lying, stabbed at me in ways I didn’t understand. “I’m not—”
“You keep saying you’re okay, that you’re fine, that no one needs to worry.” For the first time he looked away, his gaze skimming the empty wine glass before returning to me. “But none of that’s true.”
I wanted to protest. I needed to protest, but an unexpected wave of vulnerability—raw, naked—swamped me.
“I saw you when I got home, sleeping. I tried to wake you, but you just sank deeper into the blanket…and whispered his name.”
