I should trust my instincts right now, should let myself pursue the one thing that felt good in my life at the moment. It was already hard to imagine calling off this thing I’d started with Nolan.
As I stood at the front window with my hands on my hips, my mind replayed this afternoon. Nolan’s stolen kisses. The presence of Daniella looming in the background. His friend, Greyson, who watched us as if we were his own personal soap opera, just waiting for the drama to unfold.
Was I insane? It seemed that way. But I couldn’t deny my attraction to Nolan. The big, broad man inspired feelings deep down inside that I’d never expected. Of course, he was handsome, six foot four, muscled from head to toe . . . but it was more than that. There was a depth to him, something that I could feel when he looked into my eyes. Like he was just waiting for someone to understand him, to peel back his layers and accept the man he was. And I wanted to be the one to explore his depths.
After my ordeal with Troy, the last thing I was looking for was another messy entanglement. I was here to keep my head down, start fresh, and find a path where I’d be safe and happy. And instead, after being here for less than a week, my life was already turning complicated.
I sighed as my gaze wandered over toward the parking lot. Something prickled against my spine, making my posture straighten as awareness zinged inside me.
That white car . . . it was familiar. It had been parked in the same spot all day. I’d seen it when I walked down to Nolan’s for the game more than four hours ago. There had been a man sitting in the driver’s seat then, which didn’t seem all that strange at the time, but he was still there. Watching. Waiting.
The room chilled and feelings of panic slammed into me. Stumbling back from the window, I grabbed my phone, double-checked the locks on the front door, and retreated to my bedroom.
Locked behind my bedroom door, I fired off a text to Nolan. My growing feelings aside, this was about staying alive. I needed him, much more than he needed me. My plan was going to work. It had to.
Lacey: Would you like to come over for dinner tomorrow night?
Chapter Six
Nolan
The next afternoon, I was watching TV with Sutton draped over my lap like a drooling sandbag. Neither of us paid any real attention to the evening news, but both of us were enjoying our lazy Sunday. I’d learned not to take life’s small pleasures for granted.
When my phone dinged on the end table, I reached over, jostling Sutton and prompting a peeved grunt. It was a text from Lacey: Can we do dinner at 7:30 instead of 6? Sorry for short notice; shitstorm at work today.
Wondering if she meant that literally, given that she worked at an animal shelter, I texted her back: I can come over in five minutes and lend a hand.
Her apartment was just a short drive down the road. Food definitely wasn’t what I craved most right now, but I decided not to say that. At least, not via text. Some things were better said in person, and even better murmured into a woman’s ear.
Her reply came almost immediately: That’s okay. Please don’t go out of your way.
I rolled my eyes, knowing how these Southern rituals of polite refusal worked. I typed out the next step in the dance: No worries. I want to help out.
As I hit Send, I realized that I actually meant it. Cooking wasn’t an interest of mine, but making dinner with Lacey actually sounded fun. Although I’d probably have to hold a gun to her head to get her to accept my offer.
About five minutes later, she responded: Well, if you really insist . . .
“Huh. That was easy,” I said to Sutton. She still hadn’t been able to bring herself to say yes, but I’d expected a full-blown etiquette arms race.
The bulldog just stared back at me mournfully.
“Sorry, buddy.”
She probably wouldn’t mind if I brought him along—she seemed to love the little gasbag almost as much as I did, and said gasbag loved table scraps. But I wanted some uninterrupted time with Lacey tonight. So I nudged Sutton to the floor, ignoring his grumbles of protest, and coaxed him into my bedroom with a treat.
Then I made the short trip over to her apartment complex and knocked on the door. She answered in cutoff jean shorts and a forest-green T-shirt with a howling wolf on it. Her feet were bare, showing pearly pink toenails, and her long brown hair was corralled in a loose, messy braid. Except for her bright eyes, she looked like she’d just rolled out of bed—and it made me want to roll her right back in.
“Hey, there.” Her smile was a little sheepish. “I told you not to come yet . . . it’s going to be super boring. The pot roast has to cook for three hours.”