Page 48 of Three Steps Behind

Nineteen

DECK MOVED DOWN the hallway toward his living room. All the lights were on, but after discovering the break-in at her condo, he couldn’t blame Harper. Just one more thing to terrorize the woman he was coming to love, which terrified him but in an entirely different way. But now wasn’t the time for that. She had healing to do—not his love or issues to deal with.

He’d be here for her, though, whatever that took, wherever that led—to a point. Loving someone by being there was easy. Loving someone with full transparency like Christian and Andi or Ri and Grey . . . He wasn’t sure he had it in him. He wished he did for her, but . . . He shook off the thought and paused in the doorway, trying to rein in his thoughts.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked, hanging at the edge of the room to give her space.

She looked over her shoulder at him from the couch. “Please,” she said, scooching stuff over on the seat—piles of paper, sticky notes, pens.

“What’s all this?” he asked, taking a seat on the edge of the leather sofa.

She sat with her legs crossed, wearing yoga pants and an evergreen sweatshirt, the color of her eyes, hanging off her slim, still-bruised shoulder—a thin, black sports bra strap running over it.

“I went through the mail Mrs. Pearl gave me while she was checking you out.” A smile, soft and small, curled on her lips for a hint of a moment, and he was glad he’d made her laugh earlier. Even briefly. Just to hear her laugh was amazing.

“I think she might be the one.” He winked.

She laughed again—the best sound he’d heard in a long time. He could hear it all night and still not get enough.

“You got a lot of mail.” His gaze scanned the torn envelopes, the neat stack of what looked like bills, and a rectangular, thick paper with fancy script. “What’s this?” he asked, gesturing toward it. “If you don’t mind me asking?”

“Oh, I don’t mind. It’s the yearly invite to Andres Xavier’s award gala.”

Gala? Not something you attended very often. “Who’s Andres Xavier?”

“Oh, he’s a major humanitarian to the Middle East. Provides the villagers with much-needed supplies. Helps them survive among the . . . rebels.” She swallowed, then cleared her throat. “Every year he gives an award to someone who’s made a difference in the war on terrorism, in preventing genocide, or in aiding a war-torn region, and he holds a gala to celebrate that person and invites humanitarian organizations like mine from all over the world. It’s a pretty big deal in the humanitarian world.”

“It’s not too far away. Do you plan to go?” He’d like to take her.

He paused. That thought had come so easy. His care, concern, and growing love for her so easy. Too easy.

“Oh. I don’t think so.”

He nodded, though wanting to nudge her to go. To get her mind off everything. But given the subject matter of the award, it might just be a painful reminder of the rebels, who, he now guessed, had been the ones to hurt her. His heart ached to understand what she’d gone through, to be there to listen to her and to reassure her he had her and, more importantly, that God did, but . . . Now that he focused on it, he hadn’t noticed her speaking of God or praying before meals, as she’d always done before. Had what she’d gone through changed her perception of God? He prayed not. Prayed she’d look to their Maker for healing only He could provide.

He studied her for a moment, her intent gaze on the invitation, trying to read her expression. Clearly, half wanting to go, half trepidatious. Part of him wanted to know what she’d gone through over there. The other part prayed he’d never know because it would shatter his heart.

She shifted her attention to the small hardback notebook in her hand.

He lifted his chin. “Taylor’s journal?” he asked, not sure that was a better subject, but at least it might distract her from what had happened on her trip.

The expression on her face when she’d said rebels gutted him. Maybe taking a look at Taylor’s case would bring her investigative skills into play and put her mind on something other than the pain. Or, at least, a different kind of pain.

I don’t presume to tell you what to do, Father. You made the stars, our world. You know all, but what I don’t understand is why she’s having to go through so much, carry so much. So much agony from so many different directions. Please help her carry this burden.

She won’t let me. He heard God’s voice resonate in his mind, in his soul, so clearly.

Maybe she wouldn’t let God, but maybe she’d let him shoulder some of it. He refocused his gaze on her, on the lamplight shining on her blond hair, angling off her high cheekbones.

He raked a hand through his own hair. Man, he was falling for her, and there was nothing waiting to catch him. The feeling was addictive, freeing, and startling. And he wondered if she’d ever feel that way about him. When she was ready to feel again.

“You okay?” she asked, blowing an errant lock of hair off her brow.

He smiled.

She blew again.

“May I?” He reached out slowly, keeping a distance.