She twisted away from him to set Buttons on the floor and clip the leash to his collar. “I don’t believe you.”
When she straightened, he laid his purchase on the end table and put both hands on her shoulders. This time she didn’t pull away.
“I know you’ve had more than your fair share of men who did nothing more than use you. I’m not like that. I believe in treating women with respect, protecting and cherishing them. Right from the start, I’ve admired your resilience and honesty and strength. I care about you, Jess.”
She pushed him back against the wall and gently held him there. “If you care about me, then prove it.”
His eyes dipped to her mouth. She was inches away. Close enough to kiss. He silently chided himself for the direction his thoughts had gone. That probably wasn’t what she meant.
“Open up to me.”
His eyes snapped back up to meet hers. “What do you mean?”
“Tell me what you’re running from.”
He lowered his gaze. “I’m not running from anything. I don’t form emotional attachments because I move around too much. It’s all part of the job. And it suits me fine.” No, that wasn’t even true. Because no matter how many years he ran from the memories, he would always long for the warmth and stability of home.
“I don’t believe you.”
He avoided looking at her, but couldn’t ignore her scent, clean and fresh, slightly floral and totally feminine. It scattered his thoughts, sending them spiraling off in a dozen different directions.
She leaned even closer, shattering what little concentration he had left. “Tell me the truth. What are you running from?” Her voice was smooth and low, and it flowed over him like sweet, scented oil, soothing the raw places in his heart.
He shook his head. To talk about it was to relive it. And he did enough of that in his dreams.
Then he met her gaze, filled with understanding, not of his circumstances, but his pain. And the words he’d refused to form tumbled out anyway.
“I lost someone close to me. She was murdered.”
The air rushed from her lungs and she seemed to deflate in front of him. “I’m so sorry. How long ago?”
“Three years.” For six months, he’d stayed in Columbus and walked around in a grief-induced fog. Then he’d joined the Bureau. Since then, he’d gone wherever they’d sent him. At times, he still moved about in a grief-induced fog.
She reached up to cup his face with both hands. Buttons’s leash draped from one wrist. The dog waited at the other end, quiet and still, as if he sensed something important was transpiring. When she spoke, her words were barely above a whisper. “You can’t go through the rest of your life afraid to love again. Maybe it’s time to stop running.”
She dropped her hands and led Buttons outside. After picking up the Harvey’s bag from the end table, he followed her and the dog into the yard.
Her words had made sense. But it was more complicated than that. It wasn’t just the loss. It was the guilt, knowing that the only reason he was still alive was because she was dead. And the determination that, no matter what, it would never happen again.
He could quit the FBI, leave police work altogether. But it was his calling. It was what he did. And maybe, because of his efforts, a teenager would walk at his high school graduation, a young woman would be able to face life without looking over her shoulder, and a husband would be around to love his wife another day.
He couldn’t undo his own past. But he could change the future for others.
Jessica pushed herself away from the table. Three candles burned in the center, surrounded by empty dishes that, an hour ago, had held meatloaf, mashed potatoes and green beans. Her cooking wasn’t fancy, but it was substantial.
After she’d taken Buttons out last night, Shane had invited her over for the pizza and salad she’d missed out on the night before. Their conversation had remained lighthearted, and though he hadn’t elaborated any more on his personal history, what he’d told her was enough. The carefree roamer had a tragic past. For some reason, that made him all the more attractive. Before the end of the evening, she’d invited him to dinner at her place.
Shane rose and gathered their dishes. “Let me help you clean up the mess. Then I’ll leave so you can get some sleep, since we both have to get up and go to work tomorrow.”
“That’s probably a good idea.” Even though she’d gotten a jump on cooking this morning by mixing the meatloaf ingredients and peeling and dicing the potatoes, not getting off work until six made for a late dinner, regardless of planning.
She added two squirts of dish soap to the sink. “I’m surprised you’re still working at Driggers.”
“Me, too. I’m just not getting much investigating done. I keep bumping into Hammy.”
“Hammy? After the condition we saw him in at his house, I expected him to still be incapacitated.”
“He showed up yesterday. Either he’s figured out how to function while still grieving the death of his girlfriend, or Spike gave him a swift kick in the rear, told him it was time to get back to work. From the looks of it, I think he’s been tasked with keeping an eye on me.”
She turned off the faucet and started washing the plates. “I’ve been doing some calling around, trying to find the man with the New England accent, but I’m not having much luck. Seems no one’s heard of him.”
Frowning, he rinsed the plate she handed him and placed it in the drainer. “Be careful who you ask. You don’t want it to get back to the wrong people.”
“Don’t worry, I’m being stealthy. I’ve just asked a few people who came into the store, and this morning
