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His chest decompressed with relief, and he took a second to speak, almost as if he needed a minute to gather himself.
“They’re gone,” he said finally, his expression hardening back to his normal asshole resting face.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
His focus was already off me and on the war zone that was now my home. “We’ll hunker down here tonight. Make a plan.”
“What?”No, surely, he doesn’t think—
“They won’t come back,” he said, reading my thoughts. “The weather’s getting too bad. And they probably assumed you called the cops, and also, they know you’re not alone.”
“But what if—”
His voice turned to ice. “If they do come back, I’ll be ready.”
And just like that, it was settled.
“Do you have any plastic sheets?”
I watched as he strode across the room, on to the next thing. I got the sense that this was life for Justin Montgomery. He made a decision, people fell in line, and he moved on.
“Yes, I do, in the shed, but I don’t know if I have enough to cover all the windows.” I closed my eyes and shook my head, unable to let it go. “But hang on, Justin. I have to leave. I have to—”
“Your car is destroyed, and I’m not letting you take mine. Even if you left this house right now, you would get stranded on the side of the road, in the middle of the night, where you’d be a sitting duck for them. And if they don’t kill you, there’s a chance the weather will. We’re not leaving right now. That’s the last I’ll say about it.”
“I don’t even know you.”
“Right back at you. Staple gun?”
“In the kitchen.”
“Get it. I’ll get the plastic sheeting from the shed.”
As he turned, the light glinted off the scar running down the side of his face. It was revolting, a stain on a stunningly beautiful canvas. It was jarring, jagged and puffy. Whoever had sewn it up had done a terrible job. I wondered where he’d gotten it. A scar like that had a story.
I also wondered what the rest of his body looked like. Was it as smooth and chiseled as the rest of his face? Or was it covered in scars?
Justin strolled out the back door as I watched, completely dumbfounded by the situation I’d found myself in. This man showed up at my diner, went all John Wick on two men who were being disrespectful to me, then showed up on my doorstep, bringing a gunfight with him.
I walked to the window, studying his silhouette through the blizzard.
My stomach swirled with adrenaline, anxiety—and yes, attraction. It was impossible not to acknowledge how incredibly sexy Justin Montgomery was.
Tall, built like an ox, with a mysterious, dangerous vibe that pulled you in like a magnet, despite all the warnings your mother gave you about men like him. It was his confidence, though, that did me in. I envied it, craved it, wanted to be smothered in it.
I had so many questions, like why was he looking for Kusma? Who did he work for? And why come to me about it?
One thing was certain: Justin was right about the weather. I’d lived in Alaska long enough to know that this was not the kind of night you went out into.
I watched Justin’s cell phone’s flashlight bounce around the inside of the shed. When he finally reemerged with the plastic sheeting tucked under his arm, I ran to the kitchen for the staple gun.
“Make a decision,” I whispered to myself.
Right now, make a decision. Hunker down and hope for the best, or run right now?
My heart pounded.
