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“Do you like ice cream?” I ask, mostly to see if she’ll respond.
She doesn’t look at me. Her focus is strictly on Butterscotch, but I have a feeling she’s very aware of every move I make, no matter how small. “It’s too cold for ice cream.”
A low laugh rumbles in my chest. “You’re definitely not from around here. For locals like me, it’s never too cold for ice cream.” I can’t imagine her thin sweater is doing much to keep her warm. I shrug off my jacket and hold it out to her. “You look cold. Put this on.”
Her gaze flicks up for a fraction of a second, and that’s all it takes for me to become mesmerized by the honey brown of her eyes. Her attention returns to my super content, tail-wagging dog. She keeps petting him, not missing a beat. “I don’t need your coat. And yes, I like ice cream.”
I let my arm fall to my side, wanting her to look at me again. “Do you have a favorite flavor?”
“Does it matter if I do or not?” she asks, her words soft, almost thoughtful.
“I guess not.”
She straightens, her back stiff, her eyes never leaving me as if she’s worried I might attack. “It’s mango.”
A smile ghosts my mouth. “Good choice.” There’s something about her that sets off a warning in my gut and makes it hard to walk away. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” She hugs herself as if she’s trying to keep her pieces together, to shield herself.
The unease in my gut flares. She’s so distant, she’s acting like my best friend Colton and my brother when they were battling PTSD.
That doesn’t mean she’s got the same thing, though.
Shit, what the hell happened to her? What’s her story?
“You do realize that when a woman says she’s fine, it usually means she isn’t?” I say.
“And sometimes it means exactly that. She’s fine. Good. Happy.” She smiles as if to make a point, but the scar prevents the smile from fully forming.
The smile falls away. She grabs her shoes and socks and walks toward her bike. Her bare feet sink into the loose sand, making her movements awkward, as if she’s limping.
Or in pain.
“See you!” I call after her.
She doesn’t reply or look back. Once she reaches the bike rack, she pulls on her shoes and pedals away.
I walk along the beach, my mind unable to let go of what might have happened to the woman and who’d possibly hurt her. Her eyes linger in my thoughts. Eyes that have seen too much. Who the hell is she? And what is she doing in Maple Ridge?
Shit. And what are those honey-brown eyes like when she’s happy? Are they as spectacular as I think they’ll be?
My mind flicks to the earlier conversation at the Veterans Center. About organizing a fundraiser to help the veterans and first responders with PTSD and their families. People like that woman.
I don’t know the first thing about organizing a fundraiser, and I’m not going to kid myself into believing it will be easy. But what if it were a success? It could mean the difference between someone giving up on life the way Colton did—the difference between a wife losing a husband, a child losing their father—and a family remaining together and healing.
I grab my phone from my pocket and hit the speed dial for Zara. Butterscotch trots alongside me.
My brother’s best friend picks up on the second ring. “Hey, Troy.”
“Hey. I need your help with something…”
5
JESSICA
March, Present Day
Maple Ridge
