Page 142 of Shadowing You

“Me, either. I hope we get to meet them.”

His eyebrows hiked. “We? If you want to, you’ll have to stay saddled with me.”

“Saddled?” She tried to figure out what he meant. “A saddle is a seat for a horse, no?”

He chuckled, though it sounded forced. “It is a weird expression when you think of it that way. You know what I mean, though. If you decide to stay hitched, stuck with⁠—”

“We are not stuck together.”

“No. You’re right.” His smile seemed to freeze at the corners. He pulled another slice of cheese off the stack, studying it as if it took all his concentration.

“Ethan.” She slipped her hand over his on the counter. “Just because we’re taking time doesn’t change anything. I am not stuck with you, but I still choose you.”

He looked up, and something sparkled in his eyes. “You do?”

“Always.”

He swallowed, nodding. “Okay then.” He looked back at the cheese, but maybe only to hide some emotion he didn’t want her to see.

It was her fault he felt so uncertain about their marriage. She was driving a wedge between them because of her own fear—that she didn’t deserve him. That he’d find someone better.

Not that there weren’t plenty of better options for him to choose, but…he’d chosen her.

And she’d chosen him. And maybe that was all she needed to know.

They’d been in the house for three days.

The first night, she had still been unwell, the sore throat creeping in again at the edges, a low ache starting behind her temples. Ethan had warmed a roasted chicken and made mashed potatoes with lots of butter and milk. The meal had been warm and soothing.

He’d picked out another movie after dinner, a romance meant to be funny, and she had stayed awake for most of it, though she’d missed the ending.

She remembered only the hero and heroine on a sunny beach and then, much later, the surprising feeling of Ethan’s chest as he carried her up the stairs. He had laid her on the bed and pressed his lips to her forehead.

She’d woken a couple of hours later in the dark room to find a glass of water and a bottle of ibuprofen on the nightstand with a note telling her to take them if her fever returned.

The second night, she’d felt well enough to cook, though there weren’t the right ingredients to make any of her favorite dishes. But she’d seared steaks and steamed broccoli and rice. They’d eaten on the floor in the living room in front of a roaring fire. After dinner, rather than watching a movie, they’d played cards and talked for hours. He’d told her stories from his work, some serious, some so funny that she’d laughed until she’d cried.

That night, he had walked her to her door and kissed her, slow and lovely, and for a moment, she’d wanted to draw him with her through the door behind her.

She hadn’t, though. She’d said goodnight and then dreamed of him.

Now it was the morning of the third day, and Ethan sat at the kitchen table with his laptop open and a mug beside him, focused on the screen.

Mei Lin held her tea and watched the trees moving with the breeze and thought about mornings like this one, him at his screen and her at her tea, neither of them feeling like they needed to fill the silence. This could be their lives. This would be their lives.

If Lu Feng were ever captured.

She thought about the town they had driven through to reach this place. There’d been a church steeple, a river running gray under bare trees, and a spattering of restaurants. She had pressed her face to the window as they’d passed and decided it was the prettiest place she’d seen in years.

Not that she didn’t appreciate this luxurious house, but she would love to walk through the antique shop or the bookstore they’d passed. She would love to look at…whatever they sold. Food, clothes, souvenirs… Or just to walk. To be outside in the sunshine.

But they had to stay in the house. They couldn’t be seen. And she wasn’t complaining, of course, only tired of being trapped.

Ethan’s phone buzzed against the wooden table.

He glanced at the screen. “I don’t recognize the number, but it’s from Maine.” He thumbed the call open. “Hello?” There was a pause, then Ethan said, “Hold on,” and put the phone on speaker. “We’re both here now.”

“Hey.” The man on the phone had a deep, friendly voice, the kind that sounded like it was smiling. “My name is Callan Templeton. I’m Alyssa Wright’s fiancé. Also, I work for the FBI.”