Natalie’s bedroom showed a side of her I’d yet to fully explore. Shades of purples and grays and beige. Her bed was thick with pillows, soft and inviting. Sheer curtains gave the room a hazy glow, the scant moonlight encasing her bed.
Will you marry me?
I fell into her down comforter, pulled her pillow over my face, and breathed her in, my body and soul resting as if I’d returned home from a long journey.
I’d never be lonely sharing space with Natalie.
I’d never wake to cold, empty sheets.
Eventually, we’d have to exchange the queen-size bed for a king to fit children. Sundays would be lazy days, sleeping in, sipping coffee, reading. Chasing kids around the house.
Will you marry me?
I’d never wanted anything more.
“How’s she doing?”
“Good. She’s with her parents.” I scooted to the chair closest the window, blinking against the glare from the lake. “What’d you find out?”
Tango and Tito settled into their chairs, Tango resting his elbows on the red Formica.
Tito dropped a manilla envelope between us and leaned back, arms crossed, dark eyes focused. “The car that ran down Natalie belongs to her boss, Caleb Griffin. Guy’s in the hospital. His brother found him beaten to a pulp in his house. Broken arm, multiple facial fractures.”
With one long finger, Tito pushed the envelope my way. Tango shifted in his seat. Cleared his throat.
“What is this?
“Open it.”
The unsealed envelope looked safe enough, but the way my friends leaned closer, like shields, I knew my life was about to take a twisted turn.
I emptied the contents on the table. Photos. Gritty security camera footage. Some I recognized as the bank parking lot. Some were taken outside of Natalie’s condo. All of them were of the same figure wearing dark clothes. Pale skin. Blond hair.
Not—thank fucking God—Victoria.
Tito then passed me Natalie’s phone. “Fuckin’ idiot thinks burner apps are untraceable.” He pulled out his own cell and showed me an Instagram feed. @HOTraversFitness. “This guy is dumber than a bag of rocks.”
Pics of Natalie littered his feed. In the gym, in the car. Various outdoor locations. Every single one of them recently posted, though it was obvious they were old photos by the cut of Natalie’s hair.
The most recent post was uploaded two hours earlier and was of Natalie sleeping, half of one breast exposed, the light hitting her just right in a warm, erotic glow. It read: To watch her sleep is the sweetest torture.
Then the hashtags. #gettingmygirl #todaystheday #lovehurts #shesmine
“I gotta go.” I slammed my palms on the table, my heart hammering, chest constricting. My only thought was getting to Natalie.
Footsteps tracked behind me. Heavy. Determined. I reached my car. Turned.
“You’re not doing this alone.” Tango walked around to the passenger seat.
“I can handle it,” I argued, though I had no idea how.
“We know.” Tito tucked into the back seat, filling half the space. “Don’t wanna miss the fun.” He was already on the phone. “Hey, Bunny, Aida still with you?” He paused, nodded, said, “Good. Listen. I need your help.”
Sitting cool as a cucumber, Tango explained, “Tito owns the top floor of Natalie’s apartment. She’ll be fine.”
Natalie
Children of all shapes and sizes littered the playground, their energy addicting, their giggles and squeals infectious as they enjoyed the first sunny day in months.
Cole’s face lit up my screen, and I answered with a heady, “Hi.”
“Hey, gorgeous. Where are you?”
“Sitting in the park. I sent Mom and Dad off, and it’s so beautiful today I didn’t want to go back inside yet.”
“Do me a favor?”
“Sure.” I snuggled into the collar of my coat. “What’s up?”
“Head back. Lock up. I’m on my way. Should be there in fifteen or twenty minutes.”
“Cole. Why do you sound upset?”
“I’ll explain when I get there. Please. Just go back inside for me?”
“Okay.” I looked around, worried. “You’re scaring me a little bit.”
A pause. A loud exhale. “Sorry, sunshine. Don’t mean to scare you. Just got some information you need to hear.”
“Okay.”
“Call me when you’re safe inside?”
“Sure.” I tucked my phone into my back pocket, pushed off the bench, righted my crutches, and headed the half block toward home.
At the front entrance, my cell buzzed. I should’ve continued inside, but instead I read the screen.
Gotchu
Shit. Shit. Shit. I turned to look over my shoulder and dropped a crutch.
“Shit!” Hobbling on one foot, I bent to retrieve my fallen support.
“Let me get that,” came the familiar voice.
I stilled, the chill permeating my bones.
Slowly, cautiously, head throbbing, chest pounding, I rose to face my greatest mistake.
“Holden.” I scanned my surroundings. The street was busy, the sidewalk dotted with people. I was safe for the time being. “What are you doing here?”
“What do you think I’m doing?”
He reached for my cheek. I knocked his hand away.
His chest rose and fell. Once, twice, three times.
I feared my heart would detonate, the roar between my ears deafening. The man before me struggled for composure, and when he closed his eyes, took one long breath, then blew it out slow and steady, I knew I wouldn’t like whatever came next.
“I’m here to fight for you, Nats.” He scratched his head, messing his now shoulder-length blond hair. “I was such an idiot before. I never should’ve let you get away. I should’ve cherished you.” His pale blue eyes darkened, filling my blood with adrenaline.
“Holden.” I held up a hand and took a step back. “Stop right there.”
“Let me speak,” he said, his plea robotic, practiced. “Let me say what I need to say.”
“No!” I didn’t step away again, but instead hobbled closer and lifted my chin to make sure he heard me loud and clear. “Nothing you say will make me change my mind.” I took a breath, measuring my words. “You have to stop. Creepy as this is, you stalking me to another state, deep down, I know you have a good heart—”
“I’m not a fucking stalker,” he cut in, his glare darting toward the door, then landing back on me. He
