Her retro-looking top slid off her shoulder, and he tried not to let the expanse of smooth skin distract him as she tugged it back into place.
Failed.
“Well . . . I wouldn’t mind having a few closer neighbors—the lighthouse buyer not included.”
Focus, Garrison.
He yanked his gaze back to her face. “Did you, um, ever think about selling the house and moving into town?”
“Yes. I can get easily spooked out here.”
“I know.”
She wrinkled her nose. “You were right the night you rescued Annabelle. I should have talked to you through the window instead of calling the police.”
“I suppose being in a secluded area like this might be challenging for a big-city girl.”
Catching her lower lip between her teeth, she pressed the tines of her fork against some chocolate crumbs on her plate. “It wouldn’t have been, two years ago.”
He took a measured sip of his coffee.
Careful, Garrison. Don’t scare her off.
“Any particular reason for the change?”
“Yes.”
She set her fork down, leaving the rest of her brownie uneaten, and wrapped her fingers around the oversized mug. “I had a rather frightening experience in Atlanta.”
Based on the tight grip she had on her coffee and the flutter in the hollow of her throat, that was a gross understatement.
Something very bad had happened to Marci.
Tension coiled in his gut, even as he tried to maintain a calm façade.
If someone had hurt this woman, he’d be sorely tempted to forget all about the Hippocratic Oath and beat the stuffing out of them.
Not a very Christian inclination—but that was how he felt.
And it was telling.
He might not have wanted to have feelings for Marci . . . he might have convinced himself she would be all wrong for him . . . he might have career plans that would soon take him far away from Hope Harbor . . . but he couldn’t ignore reality.
Like it or not, he was falling for her.
Hard.
When the silence between them lengthened, she peeked at him over the rim of her mug.
Say something, Garrison, or she’s going to shut down.
“I suspected there might be an incident in your background that would explain all the locks. Trauma can leave a lasting mark. I saw plenty of evidence overseas. And we have an example much closer to home with Greg.”
With an emphatic shake of her head, she set her mug down and folded her hands in front of her on the table. “My situation is far less traumatic—and permanent—than his. In fact, meeting him and Rachel has helped give me some perspective on what happened in Atlanta.”
“Is that experience the reason you moved here?”
“No.” Her tone was firm. “I wasn’t running away. I liked my job, but doing PR wasn’t why I’d majored in journalism. After I came here, I fell in love with the town—and once I found out about the Herald, I saw an opportunity to create a life closer to the kind I’d always wanted. Run a newspaper, be my own boss . . . it was more providential timing than escapism.”
She still hadn’t told him what had happened.
How much could he ask before she backed off?
“Have you had any regrets about relocating?” That should be a safe question.
“No. Not one. I knew almost immediately this was where I belonged.”
“And you never miss big-city life?”
“Not much. The few conveniences I do miss are more than offset by living in a beautiful setting where your neighbors know and care about you.”
A few beats of silence passed.
Looked like he was going to have to take a chance and ask the key question.
“May I ask what happened in Atlanta?”
She studied her knitted fingers.
Somewhere in the distance, a sandpiper trilled while ten otherwise silent seconds ticked by.
She was going to deflect the question.
No surprise, given . . .
“I had a stalker.”
It took him a moment to absorb her quiet comment—and as the ugly word hung between them, he gritted his teeth.
“Did he hurt you?” The question was out before he could second-guess whether it was too personal.
“Not physically.”
That, at least, was a relief.
“Do you want to tell me about him?”
She massaged the bridge of her nose. “He was the son of one of my firm’s biggest clients—and he worked in his dad’s company. I met him at a client party. He seemed charming and fun and smart, so when he asked me out, I agreed. Since I didn’t deal with that account, there was no conflict of interest. The first date was fun, and I was flattered he wanted to get together again a few days later. That date was fine too. But then he became obsessive—and possessive.”
Ben took a sip of his cooling coffee, trying to control the flames of anger licking at his composure. “What happened?”
“He sent a constant stream of letters and cards, along with flowers and gifts. Extravagant stuff, like three dozen roses or a new big-screen TV I’d mentioned was on my wish list. And he’d call a dozen times a day. After work, I’d find him waiting on my doorstep. He started hanging out at the coffee shop I went to every Saturday. He even showed up at my church on Sunday.”
She wasn’t exaggerating about the guy’s obsession.
That was very scary behavior.
“He must have had psychological issues.”
“I came to the same conclusion after our second date.”
“Did you tell him to back off?”
“Over and over again. On the phone, in person, by email. Nothing worked. I talked to my boss about it, and he had a conversation with the guy’s father. That didn’t help, either. In the end, I had to get a protection order against him.”
Ben frowned.
He was no lawyer, but as far as he knew, an unrelated victim usually had to have a reasonable concern she was in physical danger—not just trying to stop unwanted attention—to get an order like that.
“Did he threaten you with physical violence, Marci?”
Her throat worked. “Not in words. But whenever he showed up, he’d get close. Too close. Sometimes he’d touch me. And he was tall and strong and . . .” She swallowed again. “I was afraid he might get violent.”
No wonder
