She hopped in her car and drove the three minutes to the corner store. She parked in front, at the far end, distancing herself from the trio of teenage boys hanging out, smoking cigarettes. One was holding a burrito and sucking down a big gulp. He eyed her over the cup that was bigger than his head.
She eyed them without turning her head to look. A trick she’d learned from working in the HSU, she realized. Tugging the cardigan closed in front of her, she hugged herself as she walked, regretting now that she had not taken the time to put on her bra. Covered up in her cardigan, she knew no one could tell, but she felt vulnerable and exposed anyway.
“Hey,” one guy called out in greeting, flicking the ash from his cigarette. He went on to say something else to her, but she ignored him and pushed through the chiming door.
The cashier sent her a cursory glance before turning his attention back to his phone. She walked down the candy aisle and paused, considering the assortment of chocolate bars. Tempting, but ice cream was indulgence enough for one night.
She kept going until she made it to the freezer chest of ice cream. Opening the lid, she picked out the Cherry Garcia and turned back down the aisle.
A man stood right there in the candy aisle where she had been contemplating Snickers or Twix only a few moments before. She froze, her lungs seizing tight and shoving out all air.
She couldn’t see his face yet, but there was something about him. The set of his shoulders. The way his dark T--shirt rested against his shoulder blades. The narrowness of his waist. She knew that back. Recognized the hint of sinew shifting beneath soft--looking cotton. Remembered the torso beneath that she had touched on more than one occasion. So many times actually that she dreamed of it. Of him. Even without the scratchy white cotton uniform, she knew that body. She knew she was staring at Knox Callaghan.
She blinked and pressed her fingertips to her eyes, squeezing them shut. She was losing her mind. Why would he be here? It had been two months. Certainly he had left the area. She dropped her hand and opened her eyes again.
He turned in that moment, his fingers looped loosely above a six--pack of beer. In his other hand he held a bag of M&Ms.
His eyes collided with hers. And that’s what it felt like. A bone--jarring collision.
Her lungs hurt but she couldn’t breathe as they stared at each other. There was no ease to the pressure in her chest. It was like someone had pushed a pause button. Neither moved. Or spoke. He was even hotter than she remembered. Memory had somehow dulled the deep blue of his eyes, the sharp lines of his face, the well--sculpted lips. Just like in prison, a few days’ worth of stubble lined his jaw, adding to his edgy good looks.
She couldn’t blink. He looked her up and down, but she couldn’t tell what he was thinking. The stretch of silence got to be too much. The tension . . . too much. Someone had to move. Or speak.
“Hey,” she finally blurted.
“Hey,” he returned in that deep voice that fell like rain on sun--parched ground.
She drank it up, lapping it greedily inside herself. Okay. So she wasn’t insane. It really was him. He was here. And this was okay. The two of them staring at each other, talking to each other was okay. There was no prison caging them in. Caging him in. No alarm was going to go off. No guards would rush in.
Now what?
“I heard you got out.”
He cocked his head, his blue eyes glinting beneath the bright fluorescent lighting of the convenience store as he studied her.
“Congratulations.” Oh, sweet Jesus. Had she just congratulated him on getting paroled? Like it was his college graduation or something?
“Thanks.”
Her gaze flicked over him. He looked good in regular clothes. The dark T--shirt and worn denim did amazing things for his body. Hell. Who was she kidding? She had seen him without his shirt on. He would look amazing in just about anything. A burlap bag with armholes wouldn’t detract from his body or looks. “How are you doing? You look well. I mean . . . are you well?” Awesome. Apparently she forgot how to talk.
“I’m good.”
“You’re working?” She winced. Now she sounded like his parole officer.
He angled his head, his eyes narrowing slightly as he nodded. “Most nights. I’m helping run my family’s place. Roscoe’s.”
She’d driven past the roadhouse bar just outside of Sweet Hill before. Rows of bikes were always parked out front. She knew it was an institution in these parts, but it had a rough reputation. It wasn’t the kind of place she would hang out. Not that she frequented bars in general.
“Good.” She nodded dumbly. It dawned on her then that she could say the thing she had wanted to say that day she showed up in the HSU and learned he had been paroled. The two simple words.
“Thank you.” There. She said it.
He simply stared at her. Looking at her so blankly, so stoic. The same way he had looked at her when he was inside the prison. Hell, maybe he didn’t even recognize her. That was a kick in the face. Frustration bubbled up inside her.
“I said thank you,” she repeated, her voice a little clipped.