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Her gaze held a thousand words. She simply said, “Thank you.”
“Today’s incident had a better outcome.”
“Physically, yeah.” She exhaled. “Emotionally…” The small shake of her head loosened some tendrils, and they curled around her temple. “Lance Whittaker held a gun to his son’s head. That’s something that kid will carry to his grave.”
She spoke with utter certainty. From experience?
What childhood burdens are you carrying, Lissy-love?
But he wasn’t here for that. Not today.
One day — hopefully — she’d trust him enough to share them.
Tonight, he was here for a foothold in her life.
She leaned back, slipping her hands from beneath his, and narrowed her eyes. “Why are you here? Really?” she asked, as if she had a direct line into his thoughts.
He opted for the truth. “Because you matter.”
Felicity just stared at him, as if she didn’t quite believe him.
He forged ahead. “And I’d like to get to know you better. Understand why you live … like you’ve carved everything out that might become important.”
She went still for a fraction of a second, jaw tight, pulse jumping beneath pale skin. “I don’t need anyone trying to get into my head. It’s fucked up. I’m fucked up. And I sure as hell don’t need anyone coming into my home and criticizing the way I live.” Her voice sharpened, rising. “If that’s your idea of friendship, you can shove it up your ass.”
She surged to her feet, the bar stool toppling behind her with a clatter. “Time to go, Marine.”
Disappointment coiled through him, but her reaction wasn’t unexpected. “I’m not here to tear you down, Felicity. I’m here because you matter to me.” He rose, forcing control into his movements. “I’ll go.”
At the door, he turned back to face her — the solitary figure in her dull kitchen. “But before I do … let me offer you a challenge.”
She shifted, lifting her chin.
“Friendship.” His gaze held hers. “I’ll be the best damn friend you’ve ever had, Felicity Graham.” A faint smile tugged at his lips. “I dare you to try.”
16
Quilts
Heat pressed against Felicity the moment Galina Harmon opened the door, carrying with it the layered smells of roasted garlic, beets, and something yeasty and dark. And then there were the dogs, swirling around her feet, snorting their disdain for her.
It took everything in her to not turn tail and flee.
But it was early January, and Galina was celebrating Orthodox Christmas. Felicity just didn’t have it in her to be rude.
The potted cyclamen suddenly felt wrong. She thrust it out, wanting the plant out of her hands as quickly as possible. It was the only flowering one the shop had in stock. A last-minute purchase. “I— this is for you.” The words came out more abruptly than she intended.
Galina took it. And before she could react, the woman leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to her cheek. “Spasíbo.”
Felicity stilled, caught off guard by the simple gesture.
“Boots,” Galina called over her shoulder on the way toward the kitchen. The dogs trailed after their owner, tracking dirt in their wake, clearly done with the unwelcome guest.
Felicity stepped out of her boots, setting them beside several pairs of worn shoes. Apparently, grubby paws didn’t count.
The living room sat just off the entry, separate from the rest of the house. A low sofa, draped in a worn throw, faced a squat wooden coffee table scarred with years of use. An older-model television sat opposite a worn recliner. A record player occupied the corner, the narrow bookshelf behind leaned slightly against the wall, crowded with mismatched spines and small, carefully placed knickknacks. Lace curtains softened what little winter light pressed through the window, the glass faintly fogged from the heat bleeding in from the kitchen beyond.
It was the complete opposite to her spartan living. And the contrast gave her pause, reminding her how … empty her life was.
