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It’s a torrent of words, open and honest and sweet.
I smile.
“I love kids,” I say. “There’s just something about watching them start to develop their own personalities, and having the privilege of shaping that.”
“Well, aren’t you a sweet thing.” She says it closer to thang. Her eyes soften. “I hope you won’t let that whole crazy business scare you off. I’m still in shock—everybody is, really—but I’d like it if you stuck around. We don’t usually get random bodies around here, I swear.”
I snort. “Word travels fast.”
“Faster than the speed of light. Them NASA scientists ever figure out how to harness the speed of a small-town rumor, we’ll be on Pluto in a year.” Nora laughs and finally lets go of my hands as she gives Ulysses a look. “You take good care of her, you hear?”
“Miss Greenweather,” Ulysses says grandly, slipping an arm around my shoulders. “I’ll gladly make sure Miss Clarendon has everything she could ever dream of.”
By the time I finish the grand tour with the high school wing, I’m ready for a little alone time.
Everyone’s been so nice. But I can only deal with people above the age of ten for so long before I need to escape and blow off some tension.
Kids make sense to me.
Kids are easy.
They’re honest about what they want and free and open with their feelings. They’re still too innocent to understand why people lie, cheat, and twist relations into such a tangled mess of hurt and misunderstandings.
For me, it’s always been adults who are hard to understand.
The town’s only gym seems like a great place to avoid other grown-ups for a while.
The nice thing about gyms is that everyone just minds their own business. The place can be packed, and I’ll still feel completely alone.
I need that right now.
I never thought I’d get so addicted, so quickly, to the charm of small-town peace and quiet.
Sweet solitude.
And I really didn’t need to worry.
I throw Ulysses a few excuses, swing by The Rookery to snag my gym bag, then cross the plaza to the single-room gym. There’s no one there except a teenage girl behind the counter.
There’s not much to the place at all. No surprise.
A row of treadmills, ellipticals, and other miscellaneous machines. There’s a mirrored wall by the weight sets, a big flatscreen TV, and two locker doors on both sides of the stair climbers for men and women. They’re all empty today as I change.
Even better.
The girl behind the counter is on her phone, twirling her hair like she’s flirting with a special someone.
But as I step up, she offers me a smile, her blonde ponytail bouncing. “Welcome to Work It! Do you have a membership card?”
She knows I don’t.
I feel like a dossier on me was passed around secretly before I even arrived in Redhaven.
“Not yet,” I say, adjusting the strap of my bag and smiling. “But I’d be interested in getting one. What kind of plans do you have?”
She opens her mouth to give me a sales spiel, but stops as the door jingles again behind me. I glance over my shoulder and get an eyeful I need like a hole in the head.
Lieutenant Lucas damn Graves comes striding in, cockier than ever.
The last time I saw him, he was in uniform—dark navy blue bordering on black, crisply stitched, streamlined to make him look sleek and powerful and intimidating.
And yes, obscenely sexual.
Even if he acted like an elephant dick, there was a professional front behind the façade of the uniform.
Now, off duty, the man looks downright bestial.
He’s a lion-man in his translucently tight white A-shirt and black track pants with their thin white racing stripes. They match the black stripes on his white tennis shoes.
He’s built like a tank. At least six and a half feet tall, solid brick shoulders, arms as thick and hard as oak branches.
I can even see his chest and a thin nest of black hair showing in dark shadow through the shirt.
God help me.
Before, he was clean-shaven, but now he’s sporting a proper five o’clock shadow.
His dark hair is messy, tossed to one side and falling into his eyes, turning them cat-green in their shadow.
One punishing arm flexes as he adjusts the heavy-looking bag over his shoulder.
Then he stops mid-stride as his gaze lands on me.
Just great.
I freeze.
My stomach flips with irritation, and damn him, his lips twitch in a subtle smirk, tossing my insides around again.
The girl behind the counter isn’t nearly so dumbstruck.
She smiles brightly, her cheeks flushed pink. “Mr. Graves! Hi.”
He nods at her, but those stark green eyes stay pinned to me.
“Afternoon, Trisha,” he rumbles.
He doesn’t even say hello.
Why can’t I decide if that pisses me off or feels like a relief?
He just dips his head, lifting two fingers in a mocking salute before turning and strutting off with a prowling stride to the men’s locker room.
