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One who had been visibly upset to her friends when she’d thought him in danger earlier that day.
The feeling was sweeter than he’d imagined. Something he wanted. And wasn’t going to have with her.
But those big brown eyes...they needed something from him.
Her mother was paying him to make certain that she didn’t get hurt.
Only in that moment did Elliott realize that she’d hired him to do the impossible. He could protect Marie’s physical body from harm, maybe even protect her finances from ruin, but no one could guarantee that another’s heart would not be hurt.
“I’m certain I am not upset with you.” He did the best he could to dispel the shadows in her eyes. And turned to let himself out.
“Then why haven’t you looked me in the eye all night?”
“A man attempted to harm my client tonig
ht, if not directly then indirectly with his car. For all we know he might have intended to do more than just slash the tires. He’d have had access to the underside of the car. He could have cut any number of things, or planted any number of things, that could have put Liam at risk.” He spoke harshly. Not because of her. But because of what it was costing him to keep his back to her.
“I’ve seen you right after Liam was in trouble before.” She spoke directly behind him. He’d felt every move she made as she approached. Her breath was like a breeze against the back of his neck.
And couldn’t possibly have touched him. He was almost a foot taller than she was.
She wasn’t going to let him go.
Against every instinct he had, Elliott turned enough to meet that wide-open gaze and say, “I am not angry with you. If anything, I like you too much.” And then he was out of there.
Kicking himself all the way down the stairs that he’d taken at a run.
I like you too much? Why on earth had he said that?
Marie Bustamante demanded honesty. Needed honesty.
He’d given it to her.
But he was deceiving her, too.
Because he had to.
* * *
“HE SAID HE likes me too much.” Marie took cookies from the cooling rack, making room for Grace to put the muffins. Two cookies per bag. Fold. Attach gold Arapahoe Coffee Shop seal. “What does that mean?”
“Could mean any number of things.” The old woman, tall and mostly straight backed even as she bent over her tins, frowned.
Marie waited. Needing to hear what all of those “any number of things” were. Needed to get her head back on right. To have shoulders as strong and able as Grace’s.
Five-thirty on a Saturday morning after a restless and mostly sleepless Friday night, and Marie wasn’t feeling strong or able about much of anything.
“Did you think to ask him?” Efficient as always, Grace emptied the last tin, carried it to the utility sink and washed it clean.
She’d thought to ask Grace. Not the man in question. Not her best friend. Or her mother. Definitely not her mother.
No, she’d gone straight for the grandmotherly type. Like she’d needed a giant hug.
And if that didn’t tell Marie she was in trouble, she’d be just plain lying to herself.
* * *
ELLIOTT SHOWED UP at the coffee shop before eight o’clock Saturday morning. It was a further testament to Marie’s flustered state that when he walked in the door she dropped the carton of cream she’d pulled out of the small refrigerator under her counter on her way to completing one of her more famous frothy coffee drinks.
