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Good. Can you put your hand on your heart?
A space of time, then: Its there now.
Can you count out the beats? Theres this theory, that when two people focus on the rhythm of their hearts, it synchronizes them. Brings the beats together.
One beat. Two beats. Three beats Is your hand on your heart too?
Yes, she answered, closing her eyes. She whispered the cadence, and though hers leaped when she realized it was working, it settled back down, slowly aligning with his verbal count. She began to speak aloud with him, in unison. One beat, two beats He was with her. It felt like that thump against her hand was the true beat of his heart. Relaxing her head against the pillow again, she let her other hand drift down between her legs, finding the matching pulse there, holding her hand cupped over her still moist sex. The need to sleep that had been waiting behind the door of her nightmares was rising, a warm, relentless force, pulling her into its embrace.
Im getting sleepy, Brendan. But I dont want to go.
Sleep, Chloe. Im here. We can play later.
Good, she murmured. I can think of some really terrible girly songs for you to sing. Like a Virgin, Girls Just Wanna Have Fun Now whos the sadist? Sleep, sweet girl. Just sleep.
Hero, by Enrique Iglesias. Sing that to me. Do you know the song, the words?
I know it. Close your eyes. Im curled up behind you, holding you. Nothing will bother you any more tonight. Im here.
Dont forget the sappy whispered part at the beginning.
He hummed a few bars first, just as shed done. When he made the soft plea to be her hero in that sexy whisper, he did it perfectly, not silly or awkward at all. She bet he was the best drama teacher ever. He began the ballad, taking her toward dreams, a slow spiral, no darkness. A s candlelight guided her way, the shadows were a comforting cloak from reality, rather than its deceptive camouflage.
Believing he would keep her safe, she slept.
Chapter Three
&n
bsp; Chloe rubbed at her eyes blearily and checked again to be sure she had her embroidered Tinkerbell knapsack, the bag she carried as a purse.
Yep, still on her shoulder. Same place as when shed checked two minutes ago. She hoped her license was in there. Shed mislaid her keys twice in her stumbling morning departure ritual.
She was already running late for Tampa traffic. Technically Marguerite and Gen had opening responsibility today, but the pre-work crowd could be demanding. She liked to be there to help. Plus, once shed awakened again at 6 a. m. , a scant ninety minutes after shed hung up with Brendan, she hadnt been able to get back to sleep.
Stepping out the door, she pulled it closed and gave St. Frances a fingers-to-the-glass kiss. The cat, sitting in his side window shelf seat, gave her an indifferent look, which normally would have made her smile. Suppressing a sigh, she turned, and found herself confronted by something far more reassuring and unsettling at once.
Brendan, in her driveway, leaning against the door of a silver Jeep. Mortification warred with the indefinable, though she wanted it to be pleasure.
He lookedwell, there was nothing a girl could do but stop and take a long, thorough look. Which required the indulgence of other senses because of course they were like jealous siblings. If the eyes got a look, the lips wanted a taste, and then the nose wanted a deep, long drag of that nice male musk. A t the wedding, itd been threaded with the fragrance of the lavender sprig in his tux lapel. Shed been bathing in lavender lately, and the idea of it, a bath with lavender and Brendan spicing the waters How could anything be better than that?
Those direct hazel eyes met hers, a gray-green-brown color she imagined would grace Fae wings to help the creatures blend into the forest.
Silken black brows and straight-out-of-a-teen-heartthrob-magazine hair. It had the casually styled multi-layered look, and his jaw was clean-shaven.
A t the wedding, Gen had remarked, albeit in a low tone, that his hygiene and fashion confidence were stereotyped gay male, icing on a solid, dense cake of hetero sexual preference. The best of both worlds.
Maybe he was Italian. A pretty Italian mommas boy without the mommas boy part.
She was babbling in her own head. Not a good sign. A s he straightened from the Jeep, walked toward her with a loose-limbed stride, the relaxed athlete, she had to remind herself to breathe. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at her.
Months ago, she would have blithely skipped down the steps, wrapped her arms and legs around him and given him an enthusiastic kiss. She was painfully aware of that. She also would have had a hundred things to say by now, but the images of last night crowded in, the uncertainty of where that left them today, and she couldnt think.
He braced a booted foot on the bottom step. She liked the combination, scuffed black cowboy boots underneath his stressed jeans. When hed been at the Jeep, shed tried not to obviously linger on the nice presentation of his groin as hed leaned against the door, ankles crossed, one hand hooked in the jeans pocket. The casual blazer and button-down shirt complimented the outfit, screaming sexy college professor. A ll his female students probably had wet dreams about him. Hell, she was feeling that response now.
How did you know where I lived?
I have friends in law enforcement who owe me favors. You were worth calling one in.
