Page 65 of Secrets Hidden In The Glass

He shook his head. “That should do it.”

She crossed her arms, gripping her fingers against her sweater. “I’m not a suspect in one of your interrogation rooms. I don’t like being treated as if I am.”

He sent her a small smile. “I just want to know who you are.”

“I’m doing the best I can,” she said with more heat than she meant. Sighing, she shook her head. “I’m sorry.”

“I should probably be the one apologizing.”

She swallowed. “Do you want me to go?”

He blinked. “No, I don’t want you to go. I asked you some questions you didn’t like. You answered. Now I want you to come back into the house and sit down with me—eat the meal you’ve made for us. Then I want to snuggle up on the couch and hope to hell I don’t get called back out.”

Could it really be that easy? She turned to walk into the kitchen.

“Hey.” He caught her by the wrist. “I’m sorry.”

She stepped into his arms and closed her eyes when he held her tight. “I’m sorry too, Nate.”

He eased away and cupped her cheeks in his hands. “I see who you are. I see exactly what I want. Those guys might have been stupid enough to let you walk, but that’s not my intention.” He pressed a gentle kiss to her lips and went inside.

Standing where Nate left her, she pressed a hand to her heart as she stared through the open doorway at the table she’d set while she breathed in Nate’s aftershave clinging to her clothes. She wanted him and everything inside his pretty home as much as she wanted to run away.

~~~~

Callie woke in the dark, staring at the ceiling as her heart slammed against her chest. She sat up, swiping at the damp hair plastered to her forehead, realizing that it was happening again. For the third time in two weeks she was opening her eyes, sweaty and afraid, but tonight she had no trouble remembering what she’d dreamt. She glanced at Nate asleep on his side of the bed and tossed back the covers, then grabbed her robe and hurried downstairs while she could still see what was so vividly in her head. She didn’t bother with the lights on her way to the office. Instead, she switched on the gooseneck lamp on the desk and grabbed a piece of printer paper as she sat down and began sketching in frantic sweeps.

She created a border, adding a series of small squares and rectangles, continuing the pattern she knew would be pink encased by a thin strip of white if she were to make it with stained glass. Finishing that, she drew flower buds and leaves in a straight row, much like she had with the simple series of shapes. Eventually she moved on to create swirling lilies she knew would be wheat-colored with a creamy background. She added more flowers—a bunch of pink peonies surrounded by a light-blue background. As she drew, she frowned, realizing that she was creating some sort of rug—an image that made her stomach sick and heart race impossibly faster.

Shaking her head, she wanted to stop—to throw her pencil across the room and scream—but she couldn’t. She drew as if she were possessed, like she had no choice but to finish and commit to paper every tiny detail. In a way, the sensation felt similar to forgetting something she had wanted to say, then the relief in the moment of remembering. But there was no sense of relief here—only fear. Finally, she dropped her pencil and stared at the page, clutching her hands in her lap. What was this? Why did this keep happening? This wasn’t how she created her art. Inspiration often struck in an instant, but this was something different. This was madness.

“Callie?”

She didn’t bother looking up. Suddenly she didn’t have the energy. “I did it again. I had another dream.”

“Did you draw?”

She nodded, still staring at the picture.

“What did you make?”

She shrugged as a tear slid down her cheek.

Nate walked over and lifted the page. “It looks like the corner of a rug.”

More tears fell. “Yes.”

He crouched down in front of her, sleepy-eyed and boxer-clad. “Do you remember anything else—noises or voices or faces?”

She shook her head. “Just that.”

“Callie.” He took her hands, holding them in the warmth of his. “Don’t cry.”

She sniffled. “I don’t know what’s going on—why I keep doing this. It didn’t seem like that big of a deal a couple of weeks ago, but maybe it is.”

He sent her a sympathetic smile and rubbed her knuckles along the rough stubble on his jaw. “You’re having some weird dreams. That’s all.”

She shook her head again, wishing it were that simple. “I think there’s something wrong with me.”