Page 9 of Tempest’s Torment

It’s mid-afternoon when I take an arrangement to the front step for collection, and I see that the SUV is gone. I’m able to breathe a little easier. I hate when I get worked up, especially over something as simple as an SUV. Boston is full of dark SUVs, people park, and people wait. Not every car is watching me.

I need to remind myself of that, because forgetting means working myself up into a tizzy.

At four, the afternoon delivery arrives—two hours later than expected but at least it turned up. I carry the delivery to the front of the shop, my gaze going to the door and beyond before I even realize what I'm doing. The SUV is back, in the exact same place as before, its engine off.

My stomach drops. God, why do I react so badly at the sight of a blacked-out vehicle? One second I'm moving the delivery, and the next my hands are flat against the workbench in the back of the shop, my breathing too fast, my heart trying to claw its way out of my chest.

Louise finds me there ten minutes later; she doesn't ask questions, she just hands me a list of tomorrow's deliveries that need confirming, and I take it gratefully because a task is something to hold onto.

The calls I made to confirm deliveries provided a much-needed distraction for the remaining work hours, and while I did check outside for the SUV a few times, it was gone, thank goodness, I was able to stay calm and collected as I made the calls.

"Wedding consultation went well," Louise says, pulling on her coat. "She's going with the white. I've already updated the order."

I grin. "You called it."

"I've been doing this long enough that I know what a bride wants." She picks up her keys. "You all right locking up?"

I nod. "Always."

She gives me the kind of look that tells me that she doesn’t believe me but ultimately lets it go. "See you tomorrow."

The bell above the door chimes as she leaves. Cara finished at five, her usual time, and usually either Louise or I will close up in the evening. I finish the closing tasks alone; sweep the floor, move the buckets into the cool room, and wipe down the counter.

By the time I lock the front door, the street isn’t as bustling as it was earlier and the spot across from the shop is still empty. I stand on the step and look at it for a long moment, empty, no SUV. I adjust my bag on my shoulder and start walking home.

I have a car, one that I purchased not long after moving to Boston. I walk sometimes because the twenty-two minutes usually helps me reset, and because Omen was right about the fresh air clearing my head. He was also right about me having to change up my route every day. Despite the fact that familiar feels safe to me, being unpredictable will save me if needed.

I stop at the grocery store on the corner of my block and pick up enough to get me through the next few days, nothing fancy, just the basics.

I make it as far as the third step of my building before the bottom of one of the paper bags gives way, and my apples spill across the concrete, a tin of tomatoes hits the step with a sharp crack that has me flinching, a carton of stock lands on its side, pasta slides across the step, and a container of yoghurt rolls all the way to the bottom, stopping against the iron railing.

I stare down at the torn bag still hanging from my hand.

"Here,” I hear the deep, rugged voice say.

I look up and see the man from across the hall standing a couple of steps below me. I was in a world of my own, and I never heard him come up. He doesn't ask if I need help, he simply crouches and starts gathering the groceries closest to him. I crouch too, reaching for the tin of tomatoes, and his hand reaches for it at the same time; it comes too close, causing me to freeze.

He stops and sets the tin down on the step between us, close enough that I can reach it without moving toward him, then turns to the pasta as though that was his plan all along.

"Didn't mean to crowd you," he says quietly.

"You didn't." The words leave my mouth before I can stop them.

He doesn't question it; instead, he gathers the rest of the groceries, fitting what he can into the remaining bag before picking up everything else. When he straightens, he's carrying more than I am. I go to protest, but he glances at me and I instantly stop, pressing my lips together.

We climb the stairs in silence, and I love that he doesn't try to fill it, he doesn’t ask if I'm okay or look at me like I'm broken. He simply walks beside me until we reach our floor. At the top of the stairs, he steps aside and lets me get to my door first.

I unlock it, then turn back for the last of the groceries. He holds them out at the full length of his arm, leaving enough space that I have to close the distance myself.

"Thanks," I say softly.

He gives me a nod before turning toward his own apartment.

I'm inside with the door locked before I hear his key slide into the lock across the hall. I stay where I am for a moment, one hand still wrapped around the grocery bag. That was the closest I've been to a man I don't know since I came to Boston.

When I froze, he stepped back, he put the tin down instead of handing it to me, he never asked if I was okay, never asked what happened, and never looked at me like I was something fragile.

I go to lock the door out of habit, then realize it's already locked. I need to busy myself and put the groceries away.