by Kit Kyndall
It was only when the waitress approached that noise levels returned to normal, and the patrons started speaking again. She had no doubt from the whispered pitch of their words that she and Justin were the topic of conversation. She ignored them, giving the waitress a sunny smile as she ordered the daily special.
She could see Justin was struggling to give a smile as well, though it was more like a brief slash across his face that didn’t do anything to lighten his expression or the atmosphere around him. He placed a similar order, and the waitress scurried away. As soon as she was gone, he leaned back in the seat, his posture deceptively casual, though the way his hands clenched the table betrayed his true anxiety. “I tried to tell you.”
She stuck her tongue out at him before realizing how immature that was. Julia cleared her throat instead, struggling to ignore the weight of nosy gazes directed their way. “I suppose you did, but if they have a problem with our presence, it’s their problem and not ours.”
He snorted. “As unbelievably naïve as you are, I’m surprised you managed to survive in a vicious jungle like New York all your life.”
Maybe she should have been offended, but instead she grinned. “I’m not naïve, believe me. I might not understand the minute inner workings of a smallminded town, but I know how people can be. I just refuse to let them have power over me.”
He arched a brow. “Brave words. We’ll see how you feel after you’ve been here a few weeks.”
The words should have sent a shock of dread through her at the idea of spending weeks here, but instead, a pleasant warmth flowed through her. He was clearly preparing for her to be there for a while, and he was right. Until the trial, until she found someone she could trust with the flash drive that was currently nestled in her bra, she would be staying with Justin. It was her pleasure in the idea, rather than the thought itself, that sent alarm bells ringing in her head and made her return to a state of common sense.
She pulled back, putting physical and emotional distance between them, and the conversation turned stilted again as they finished their meals, which were served to them in record time—probably as a means to get them out quickly. By the time they left the diner, the brief bit of camaraderie that had existed between them seemed to have faded back into obscurity, and the silence in the cab of the truck was tension-filled again all the way back to his ranch.
The next three days were similar in how they played out. When they interacted with each other, there were moments of closeness that accidentally sneaked in, before one or both of them would withdraw. She was aware that he seemed to be equally determined to keep his distance, and though it was the wise thing to do, she couldn’t deny that sometimes it hurt to have him pull away.
She’d never been a housekeeper before, and it was more difficult keeping his large home clean than it had been her small apartment, but she found herself surprisingly content with the role. Her mother had been a housewife, and that had always seemed like a waste of time to Julia until she was thrust into a similar role. Now, she understood how her mom could find contentment in keeping a house tidy and caring for her family. It was surprisingly fulfilling to have dinner waiting for Justin whenever he showed up at the table.
She still had no idea what he did with his days. From her observation, he spent a couple of hours every morning riding one of his three horses, and then he returned to the house to closet himself away in one of the rooms down the hall. It was a room he had explicitly told her not to worry about cleaning, and she’d taken that to mean she was to stay out. She had done so, but that was where he spent most of his time, and she couldn’t deny she was curious.
Perhaps that was what led her into snooping early that afternoon when he left the house unexpectedly. He had ridden one of the horses earlier in the morning, and she was surprised to see him tear out of the stables a couple of minutes after he departed the house, this time riding a different horse.
He was pushing the animal hard, and he clung to it bareback. He hadn’t even taken time to saddle the horse. She wasn’t certain what drove him, but she was concerned. He seemed to be trying to outrun his demons, and though it was futile, she didn’t try to chase him down to tell him that. She wasn’t a psychologist, so what kind of insights could she really offer?
It was either curiosity or concern that prompted her to go down the hall and enter the room that had been off-limits to her. She didn’t know if he’d bothered to lock it up until today, since she hadn’t tried the knob, but it opened easily. She wasn’t certain what she had expected. Perhaps something dark, a clear homage to his pain. Maybe a gym, or perhaps a punching bag worn ragged from multiple hits.
Instead, she found a fairly nondescript office/den. It had the standard-issue desk and chair, leather furniture, what seemed to be a top-of-the-line computer, and rows upon rows of books. The shelves lined the walls, and he had an eclectic assortment, though one wall was dedicated to paperbacks from who she assumed must be his favorite author. She approached it inquisitively, wanting to see what kind of books Jason Hollister wrote.
Examining them, she found there were several series, and she picked the first book off the top shelf. Going by the publication date, which was two years before, it appeared to be the oldest on the shelf. Before she read the flap, she quickly counted the books and discovered there were twenty-four. The author was clearly prolific, and Justin must have reached the same conclusion, because there were three shelves that appeared to be reserved for future releases.
Without thinking, she moved to the leather sofa against the wall and sat down, reading the blurb and quickly realizing it was an international thriller. She preferred steamy romance herself, but she was willing to try new things.
As soon as she started reading, she was sucked in. She wasn’t certain how much time had passed, but she was almost halfway through the novel when the light clicked on in the room, making her realize just how dark it had gotten. She looked up in surprise, finding Justin standing a few feet away from her with his arms crossed over his chest, scowling at her. “I’m sorry. I just got engrossed in this book.”
He seemed uncomfortable, and he shifted slightly. “I told you there was no need to clean in this room.”
“I…uh…forgot.” She was certain he didn’t believe her, but at least he had the manners not to call her on the lie. “I know you aren’t paying me to read, but this is just really good. I’m assuming this Hollister guy must be your favorite author, and I can see why.”
Now, he had a curious reaction. A tinge of pink rose up his neck, coloring his ears and his cheeks. “Why do you think he’s my favorite?”
“You seem to have all his books, though I haven’t had a chance to examine each one to make sure, and his collection dominates the room. You’re clearly waiting for the author to write more, so it’s a sound assumption.”
He seemed to be struggling with something, and finally, with a whoosh of air, he said in one quick sentence, “It’s me, not another author.”
She tilted her head slightly, repeating what he had said in her mind before she said, “You mean you’re the author of these books?”
He shrugged, and his embarrassment was clear. “Yeah. After I got back from Fallujah, I was too messed up to work at a regular job, but I didn’t know what to do with myself. I’ve always liked reading, so I started writing. It’s been cathartic.”
“These are amazing. You must write a lot to produce so many.”
“Writing is better than drinking, and it sure as hell beats thinking the thoughts that sometimes go through my mind. There are times where I write sixty or seventy hours in a week.”
“Are the books how you paid for this amazing ranch? I’m just guessing, based on what you’ve said about your childhood in Sunshine, that your folks didn’t leave you well-off.” She tried to be delicate when she said the words.
“They left me a mountain of debt, but it’s paid off. Everything’s paid off, and since I have no life outside this place, I mostly just bank the royalties every month a
nd let them accumulate. This existence has been enough to get through, at least until…” He trailed off and cleared his throat before looking away. “I hate to interrupt your reading, but do you mind fixing some dinner? I’m getting hungry.”
She frowned for a moment, but used the dust jacket to mark her spot and stood up. It wasn’t because he asked her to cook that disturbed her. It was because she was certain he’d been about to say something that he clearly had thought better of, and she was dying to know what it would have been. Was she deluding herself to think it was something to do with her?
Had he been about to say that the life he lived had been satisfying enough until a new element had entered it? She didn’t push for an answer, because she was afraid that answer could go either way. He might be saying that her presence had made him realize he was missing something, or he might be telling her that she was an unforgivable intrusion on his existence, which would have made her feel guiltier for staying. Since she didn’t have another alternative, it was better not to know if that was the way his thoughts were leaning.
“Of course. Is it all right if I borrow these books?” At his nod, she took the first one with her and exited his study, going down the hallway to the kitchen to prepare dinner.
Later that night, in her room, she read the rest of the book, this time with different eyes. There seemed to be a hint of the torment he felt that leaked through onto the page. His main characters were all competent, but they all had their baggage and problems. She wondered how much of his soul had bled onto the page, and if she was struggling to find bits of him shining through, or if the clues were really there. Either way, she was completely addicted to the series he had created, and the characters he had given life to on the page.
6
She spent the next four days devouring his books in between her housekeeping duties. The more she read, the closer she felt to him, but she cautioned herself against seeing him in his books. He had flat-out warned her that it was all imagination, but she couldn’t help thinking that at least a little part of him shone through in his prose.
By the time she had finished the first two series, and was about to start on the third, she felt like she knew him, and she wanted to be closer to him. She resented the distance he kept between them, though she knew it was for both of their benefit.
Julia tried initiating conversation about the books, but he quickly shut down the topic, making it clear he was uncomfortable discussing any of the finer nuances with her. He would answer her questions about research and location, but when she started asking about his characters and their trials, he withdrew.
His behavior made her certain that at least part of him and his own struggles came through in his characters’ voices. Even if he hadn’t been good at keeping her glued to the page with his action-filled narrative, that alone would have spurred her to keep reading.
On the fourth night, she emerged from her book coma to realize she was hearing muffled shouts down the hall. Her first thought was somehow Marconi had found her, and she trembled with fear as she got out of bed. She still wore her nightgown, and as she shoved her feet into slippers, she searched around for a makeshift weapon before contemplating if she should try to squeeze out the bathroom window.
The sound came again, and this time, panic abated, allowing her to identify the noise. It didn’t seem to be someone breaking into the ranch house, and it wasn’t Marconi’s voice calling for her blood. It was simply a sound of suffering—a fear-laced cry, tinged with agony.
She was unable to resist its call, and she opened her door to step out into the hallway. Julia paused for a moment, evaluating the source of the sound, and quickly identified it was coming from the master bedroom at the other end of the hall.
Her heart counseled her to move, and his cry was like a beacon, urging her ever nearer to him. She entered his room without knocking and flipped on the light, though it seemed to have no effect on him. Moving closer to the bed, she saw Justin thrashing and crying out, clearly having some sort of dream. No, obviously a nightmare.
She felt guilty for noticing the perfection of his body, revealed to her by the fact that the sheet only covered part of his lower half. It covered a critical part, at least, and it didn’t do more than briefly distract her from the need to soothe him and wake him from whatever torture pursued him in his dreams.
Julia knelt down beside him, touching his hand. “Justin, you’re dreaming.”
Her words had no effect, and he continued to thrash and struggle while calling out. Most of his words were incomprehensible; though she could occasionally make out the word “no” among them.
She sat down on the edge of his bed, grasping his shoulders and shaking him more forcefully. “Justin, wake up. You’re having a nightmare.”
His eyes opened, but he didn’t seem to be fully awake. One second, she was holding his shoulders and trying to wake him more, and the next, his fist connected with the side of her face and sent her flying off the bed and onto the floor.
Julia lay there for a moment, struggling to process what had happened as pain blossomed in her face. He’d nailed her right under the cheekbone, and her left eye was pulsing, making pain throb through her with every beat of her heart.
She shook herself, slowly getting to her feet as she realized he was still dreaming. This time, she straightened her shoulders and moved closer to him, but out of the range of his fists. Instead, she pulled back the sheet, forcing herself not to look at his cock, since there were far more important things to focus upon.
She grasped his ankles and shook him firmly, ensuring he wasn’t sitting up and about to hit her again. She wasn’t angry that he had struck her, understanding he was asleep and in the throes of who knew what kind of mental torture, but she didn’t want to give him the opening to do it again. Finally, she got through to him when her voice took on a sharper edge and emerged almost as a yell.
He went completely slack before slowly sitting up. At first, his eyes were filled with confusion, and then they briefly darkened with heat when he realized she was standing in his room. Just as abruptly, they chilled again. “What are you doing in here?”
“You were having an awful nightmare. I was trying to wake you up.” Her tone was a little snippy when she replied to his obvious anger.
He frowned as he suddenly pulled the sheet across himself. “I’m fine. I don’t need your help.”
Julia moved a little closer, glaring down at him. “I’ll remember that the next time you’re in obvious distress, and I’ll just leave you to it then.” She turned on her heel and started to march out of the room, but couldn’t ignore him when he called her name. She turned to face him. “What?”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled at you.” His eyes widened, and his gaze moved to focus on her face. “What happened to your cheek?”
She shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I’m going back to bed now, since you’re fine.”
He was up and out of the bed, reaching her before she touched the doorway. He blocked her from passing, and despite the stern set of his features, his fingers were gentle when they cupped her chin, turning her face upward to the light so he could examine her cheek. “What happened?” His tone was laced with sadness, and it was obvious he had already guessed, but there was a hint of hope in his gaze, as though he was clinging desperately to the possibility that she might have some other explanation.
“It doesn’t matter.” She couldn’t offer another explanation, but she refused to bluntly tell him he had been the one to hit her. He was clearly in a fragile state, and she wasn’t going to contribute to it. “I’m fine. We’re both fine now.” When she said the words this time, there was no hint of sarcasm or anger in her words. She put a hand on his forearm, squeezing lightly. “I think we should probably both get back to sleep.”
His eyes were dark, and his expression was full of loathing. She was certain it was directed toward himself. “I hit you.” He phrased it as a statement of fact.
“You did
n’t do anything. You were asleep, and you had no idea what was going on.” That was as close as she could come to implying that it had happened some other way without outright lying to him.
He shook his head as he stepped away from her, clearly not wanting to be in her vicinity. “I’m sorry. I had no right to do that.”
“Justin, you didn’t—”
“Yes, I did. Don’t bother to lie about it.”
She barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “I wasn’t going to lie about it, and I didn’t plan to deny it. I was just trying to tap dance around the issue. Yes, you struck me while you were sleeping, but I’m not afraid of you, and I’m not angry. You were clearly having an awful dream, and you just struck out. Anybody could do the same. Don’t worry about what you’ve done when you had no control over it.”
It was obvious her words didn’t reach him, and he turned away from her. “You should leave me alone now.”
She wanted to argue, but the set of his shoulders and the weariness in his tone cut through her. It was obvious she wouldn’t be able to make headway in getting him to listen tonight, and though she hated the idea of leaving him to wallow in his own misery, perhaps it would be easier on him if she allowed him some distance before she tried discussing the situation with him again.
Justin cleared out of the house early the next morning, feeling the need to avoid Julia after what he’d done to her. It wasn’t because he thought she would blame him, or make him feel guilty deliberately, but was because he suspected she would try once again to assure him it wasn’t his fault and try to convince him to let himself off the hook. He couldn’t risk doing that. Last night had been a vivid reminder of why it was best if he kept his distance from everyone, especially the woman living under his roof.
He normally started his morning by riding one of the three horses, rotating a different one each day, but it was so early that they still seemed sleepy-eyed themselves. Instead of saddling Vixen, whose day it was to ride, he turned his attention to cleaning the stalls instead. He’d done that chore just a few days ago, and he could have put it off a couple more, but it gave him something to focus on besides his thoughts.
