At first, Zane succeeded more often than he failed, turning me into a hot puddle of tears. I’d stormed out of his office more than a few times with aFuck off, I’m done,only to return the next morning, ready to do it all over again. It took time, but eventually I learned how to ground myself, to focus on my senses like Zane instructed.Find something to latch onto. The temperature of the room. The way the couch molds to your body. The air filling your lungs. Anything to pull you back to the present moment.
It mostly worked. And when it didn’t—when things escalated too fast—there was another option. I’d force myself back to the present with a physical reminder. A pinch of the arm or a sliver of cheek pulled between my teeth paired with an image of a brick wall slamming down and crushing all the anxiety flooding my mind.
Break it.
“Do you need a hand?”
I whirl around and press a palm to my chest. “Oh god, you scared me!”
“Sorry about that,” he says, breathing deeply as he plants hishands on his hips. His hair is ruffled, his cheeks tinged pink. There’s no arguing Reed Aldridge is handsome—I’ve seen it over and over again in his pictures. His looks are a weapon he wields well. But the version standing in front of me, wearing the beginnings of a salt-and-pepper beard, looks older than the others. His sins are finally catching up to him, burrowing into the lines of his face. He looks nothing like his last iteration, Adrian Wallace, who seduced Evelyn Nash with a man-bun hair and tortoiseshell glasses. This version, Grant Wilson, would barely even pass as Adrian’s brother. The change is startling.
“So,” I ask, trying to control the tremor in my voice. “Are you going to help me, or are you just going to stand there and stare?” I smile as I say it, forcing my lips to form the warmest shape they can make. I practically beam at him, thinking,I hate you, I hate you, I hate you. I will make you pay.
“Yes, of course, sorry.” He wipes his hands on his shorts. “Let me take a shot.”
I stand and hand him the lug wrench. “You’re a lifesaver. I’m not getting anywhere with this thing.”
He takes it with a grin. sweat dewing on his forehead. “It’s not easy. They really screw these bolts on tight. Do you have a jack?”
“I think so? I’m not sure. If I do, it’s in the trunk.”
“Mind popping it for me?”
“It’s open.”
“Oh,” he says, flustered. “So, it is.” He ambles over and makes a show of scrounging through the space even though I don’t have anything else in there and then returns with the jack and takes a knee.
A vision of ripping the lug wrench from his hand and bringing it down on his skull flashes through my head. The urge is so sudden and strong, I’m forced to grab my wrist.
“What happened?” he asks as he works.
“I’m not sure. Everything was fine and then the car started rattling.”
“It was probably a nail. There’s a lot of new construction going on. Lots of people building homes.”
“I can see why. It’s so gorgeous.” And it is. It’s why Reed came back here—to find a place that once felt like home and try to reclaim an unspoiled piece of his past. A place where he thinks he can live out the rest of his days in peace. That’s my guess, anyway, and one I hope is right, because I’m going to turn this little sanctuary of his into the biggest nightmare of all.
“It’s wonderful.” He takes the spare, which I’ve already pulled from the trunk, and bolts it in place, then lowers the car and stands, brushing his hands. “There you go. All done. You’re good to go. You’ll want to get that flat fixed soon though. Take it to Gills downtown. They’ll treat you right. And you’ll want to drive slow. These donuts aren’t built to last.”
I screw up my eyebrows even though I know exactly what he means. “Donut?”
“The spare. Sorry. That’s what they’re called. Here, let me get this stuff for you.” He scoops up the tire and the jack and returns them to the trunk.
“Thank you,” I say. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“It’s nothing.” He shuts the lid, and then turns, looking proud of himself. “I don’t think I caught your name. Mine’s Grant, by the way.” He offers his hand.
I take it and my skin ripples when it touches his. “Avery.”
“So, are you new to the neighborhood? I don’t think I’ve seen you around before.”
“Yes. Just moved actually. But not here,” I say. “To Durango. I’ve got a place in town.”
His gaze sharpens. “So, what brings you out this way?”
You do. “Just doing a little sightseeing. I thought I’d take a drive. It’s such a pretty area.” I cast a mournful look at the spare. “I guess I should have stayed home, though. Figures this would happen. I havebad luck.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” he says, gazing at me in a way I hope means he’s staring straight into his past.
