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When her chair scraped the floor, he flinched but then stopped his body from making any further movement. His fingers were digging into his biceps now.
When she stopped in front of him, he didn’t look.
She put her hands on his arms and looked up at him. He wanted to shove her hands off.
No, he didn’t.
He finally looked at her and sandbagged all that emotion. “I’m fine.”
“I don’t think you are.” Her eyes were heavy with feeling. “I wish you would talk to me.”
How could he talk to her when she didn’t understand him, not even a little bit?
“I miss him, too, Hunter,” she said softly, so quietly that he almost couldn’t hear her.
It was the wrong thing to say—or the last thing he wanted to hear. He slid out of her hands and turned away. “That’s your problem, isn’t it?”
God, he sounded like such an ass**le. But the alternative was breaking down right here in the Merrick kitchen—and he’d had enough of that.
She let him go, and he almost called her back and apologized. He felt like he was keeping his father’s dirty little secret, and it was clawing at him from the inside out. He wanted to tell her, but that would cause her more pain than anything he was doing right now.
Dad never told you the truth. About anything.
He was only using you.
She stepped past him softly, just resting a hand on his arm as she moved past. Her fingers were warm, gentle, the same hands that had tended his scrapes when he was little.
He almost put his hand over hers, not wanting her to leave.
But then she let go. “Call me if you need something. I can bring over anything else you want.”
“Fine.”
And just like that, she walked out of the house.
He had to stop himself from going after her. It didn’t help that he knew the Merricks were in the house, had heard every word, and were probably waiting for him to come out of the kitchen.
He went out the back door and dropped into one of the porch chairs.
The air still held a chill, and the clouds overhead suited his mood. He closed his eyes and tried to let the tension drain out of his shoulders.
The solitude left him with too much room for thinking, however, and he felt worse out here. Again, he found himself wishing for a pair of wraps and a heavy bag—or an opponent and a set of mats.
When the sliding door opened, he braced himself for another lecture from Michael.
So he was surprised when a woman’s voice said, “Can I join you?”
His eyes snapped open. Hannah, the girl from the kitchen. The firefighter. Michael’s new girlfriend.
She was pretty, slender and casual without looking delicate. Hunter could see solid muscle in her arms, and he knew from his escapades with Gabriel that using firefighting equipment was no joke. She wasn’t old, but there was nothing young about the weight in her eyes.
She’d seen a lot. He could tell.
She’d been at the carnival last night. Gabriel had said something about her wanting to put him on a helicopter to shock trauma. Had she seen Calla? Would any of the bodies be identifiable after the fire?
He didn’t want to ask.
She was still looking at him, a hand on the back of the adjacent Adirondack chair.
