“What about the keys?”
“I have a security deposit box at the bank. I keep my spare there in case I ever need them.”
“Pretty smart.”
“I have a few good ideas now and then.”
“Contrary to the way it looks, I do too.”
“Thank you for trying to make me breakfast. And for the cereal.”
He walked over to the stove and picked up the ruined pan. “You died with honor,” he said, giving it a mock salute. And then he threw the entire thing into the trashcan.
I laughed. “You could have washed it, you know.”
He made a face. “No. Then I might be tempted to use it again.”
“I should change my bandages and… uh…” I looked down at his button-up. “My clothes.”
I noticed his gaze linger on my legs before he spoke up. “I’ll help you with those.”
For a minute I thought he was talking about my pants, and the memory of the last time he “helped” me with them crept up on me. Heat suffused my system as my body recalled what his touch felt like and how his fingertips lingered on my skin.
He cleared his throat and my attention jerked back to the present, and I realized he wasn’t talking about my pants. He was talking about the bandages.
It was official.
I was turning into a pervert.
I retrieved my sack of belongings from the living room and pulled out a few of the medical supplies the nurse at the hospital gave me and spread them out on the kitchen island. Then I sat down on a stool and began unwrapping one of my wrists.
“Here, let me.” His voice was gentle as he ushered my hands away and brought my wrist closer to him. He worked quietly, completely unwrapping the wound and then staring down at it with a somber expression. “How’s the pain?”
“Manageable,” I said, offering him a smile.
“I should have gotten there sooner,” he said to himself.
Was that blame I heard in his tone? I brought my free hand up and covered his arm. “Holt, I’m alive because of you.”
“But you still got hurt.”
“It would have been a lot worse,” I murmured, thinking back to that night. “I thought you were just a hallucination,” I confided and he looked up, listening to my words. “I’d been trying desperately to get to my feet, to run toward the back of my house, but my ankles were crossed, it made it hard to stand. When I did manage, I fell over.”
He didn’t say anything, but he did flip his arm over and slid it down so his fingers could grasp mine.
“I’ve never been so afraid in my entire life. The heat, it’s so intense, you know?” He nodded and I went on. “It was getting really hard to breathe, and I could feel my consciousness slipping away. And then there you were. Stepping through the flames like some kind of superhero.”
“Maybe I should get a cape,” he quipped.
I laughed lightly. “Maybe. We were lucky the fire hadn’t spread to the back door.”
“You know I didn’t actually walk through the flames. We aren’t supposed to do that.”
I tilted my head to the side. “It sure looked that way from where I was sitting.”
He nodded. “The flames were close. Closer than we would have liked. We were actually told to fall back, to go around the back of the house. But I knew if I left, if I did what they said, you would have died.”
The enormity of what he did overwhelmed me. He continued forward even after he was told he shouldn’t. He literally risked his own life for mine. I wasn’t going to bother telling him it was a reckless choice, that he shouldn’t have done it. Because I was glad he did. And I certainly wasn’t going to make less of what he did by telling him he was wrong.
“Did you get in trouble?”
His smile was lightning fast. “Nah. The chief loves me.”
I bet he did. I couldn’t imagine anyone not loving him.
He went back to working on my wrist, applying the creams I was given and rewrapping the wound like he was handling a newborn puppy or something equally as precious.
It hurt, but the pain was overshadowed by his nearness, by the sound of his even breathing, and by the looks of concern those incredible blue eyes bestowed upon me.
“Breathe,” he reminded me, pausing in his ministrations.
I hadn’t realized I was holding my breath. I took a breath and he went back to work. He probably thought I was holding my breath because of the pain. It wasn’t the pain. It was him. He was unlike any man I had ever known. It took a truly strong man to be so gentle. And he was selfless, too, putting my life ahead of his own that night.
Of course, I wasn’t about to tell him that.
He flashed me a small smile, almost like he could read my thoughts, and then lifted my other wrist and he began the process all over again.
I glanced over at my cereal, long forgotten and turned to mush.
“You can make another bowl after I’m done,” he said, the words rumbling out of his chest as he worked.
“I can just stop on the way to the motel and get something.”
His eyes flashed up to mine. “Motel?”
I nodded. “I’ll stay at one until I’m able to get another place.”
“You can stay here.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
I opened my mouth to give some kind of reply when he demanded, “Do you have a boyfriend?” The anger in his tone was surprising.
“No!”
He fell silent again as he finished up bandaging me. When he was done, he grasped my forearm up above the burns. “Katie, please stay here.”
I felt my insides caving. I looked away. If I couldn’t see the persuasion in his eyes, I wouldn’t be tempted. After all, I did feel safe with him and after everything that happened, feeling safe seemed really important.
He’s still a stranger. The sensible voice in my head reminded me.
For once in my entire life, I found myself not wanting to be sensible.
“Holt, I—”
He leaned forward, tugging on the collar of his button-down. “I like seeing you in my shirt.”
I liked wearing it. It was like being wrapped in his arms all the time.
He brushed his thumb across the fullness of my lower lip, his pupils dilating a bit on contact. From there, his thumb trailed over my jaw and down my neck, creating a charge of electricity between our skin. His hand tangled into the ends of my hair, and I knew he was going to kiss me.
And I was going to let him.
In fact, I kind of wished he would hurry up already.
Just as his lips descended upon mine, the doorbell rang. I jerked back like I got my hand caught in the forbidden cookie jar. His shoulders slumped and he sighed. “Don’t go anywhere,” he told me, and then he muttered the entire way to the door about bad timing.
It was kind of endearing.
He pulled open the door and I swear all the heat in the room was instantly sucked out to be replaced by an arctic wind.
“I’m busy,” Holt said in a cold tone that I never heard from him before and moved to shut the door on whomever was outside.
“Ha-ha, very funny.” A feminine voice came from the other side. “We both know you aren’t busy,” she said, pushing past him and stepping into the house.
Of course she was stunning. She had ultra-blond hair cut in a shoulder-skimming sleek bob, with not an ounce of frizz in sight. Her make-up was applied impeccably over skin that appeared to never see the harsh southern sun. She was tall and willowy, her movements graceful, and she was wearing short white tennis shorts and a hot-pink fitted polo with a pair of strappy sandals.
Compared to her, I looked like a troll. A short, frizzy troll full of bruises and bandages.
Her gaze landed on me instantly. I stood. “Hi—” I started, but she narrowed her eyes.
“Who the hell are you?”
Oh, I knew her kind. The kind of girl that thought she was queen bee of everything. Even if you were in
timidated, you couldn’t show it because once someone like her smelled fear, it would all be over.
I lifted my chin. “Who the hell are you?” I countered.
Holt grinned and gave me a wink from over her shoulder. Then in a no-nonsense tone, he said, “This isn’t a good time, Taylor.”
Taylor was busy taking in an eyeful of my attire—or lack thereof. Her eyes met mine and a spiteful glint came into them. She sauntered across the carpet to stand in front of me, peering down her nose at me (I wasn’t about to lift my head and look up to her), and she offered a perfectly manicured hand. “I’m Taylor. Holt’s wife.”
Shock rippled through my entire body, and it was all I could do to not let my mouth drop open. I looked at Holt, who looked like he swallowed an entire bag of lemons, and said, “You’re married?”
He opened his mouth to reply when my attention was drawn away. “Go put on some clothes. I don’t fancy seeing you dressed in my husband’s shirt.”
Oh. My. God.
I was going to die of shame.
I rushed out of the room, toward the bedroom where I hurried to find my jeans and shirt. It hurt to pull on the clothes, but I barely noticed. My mind was too busy swimming with thoughts.
How could I be so stupid? What kind of guy brings home other women and lets them sleep in their clothes when they have a wife? I was going to let him kiss me!
This was exactly why I never bothered to get close to people. This was exactly why I preferred taking care of myself.
Once my clothes were on, I rushed from the room—not even paying attention to the raised voices—grabbed my pathetic plastic sack, and then ran out onto the porch.
The door didn’t even close behind me before Holt was calling for me to stop.
I did, but only because he was my ride.
“I need my car,” I told him, not bothering to turn around.
I felt him behind me. His closeness had my body tingling, and I pushed it away, trying to ignore the feeling. He stepped around me, stopping so close my toes almost touched his.
“She’s not my wife,” he said, his voice for my ears only.
“So she’s delusional?”
“No, she’s just a bitch.”
That had my head snapping up to see him. He grinned ruefully and shrugged.
I didn’t say anything. I just waited for whatever else he wanted to say so we could go.
He sighed. “She’s my ex-wife. Emphasis on the ex.”
“You were married to that?” I asked skeptically.
“Unfortunately. We were high school sweethearts. She grew out of being a sweetheart.”
I snorted.
“How long ago did you get divorced?”
He hesitated, which made me think I probably wasn’t going to like his answer. “It was final six months ago.”
That explained the new house and lack of furnishings.
“But we’ve been separated for over a year,” he quickly added.
“What’s she doing here?” I asked, looking back to the porch where she was watching us.
“She likes to show up from time to time and make me miserable.”
“Why did you get divorced?” I asked suspiciously.
“Taylor likes money. I don’t make enough.”
Disgust had me wrinkling my nose. “You’re kidding.”
The way his jaw worked made me realize he wasn’t, and he wasn’t exactly happy to admit someone found him… lacking.
“You’re right,” I said as a strange protective feeling came over me. “She is a bitch. She’s stupid too.”
Relief flooded his eyes. “You believe me?”
“Yeah, I do.” It still didn’t change the fact it was time for me to go. He reached out to take my bag. I pulled it back. “I really do want to get my car.”
He shook his head grimly. “I’ll just get my keys.”
He jogged into the house, retrieved his keys, then shut and locked the door while Taylor stood by looking very smug. I heard the automatic locks inside the truck and stepped forward to climb inside.
But then I stopped.
I turned around and waved my fingers at Taylor. “Don’t worry, I’m nothing to be jealous of. I’m just using Holt for sex. He’s so good in bed.”
Her mouth dropped open.
I climbed in the truck.
Holt was still laughing when he fired up the engine and backed out of the driveway. Since her car was parked right behind his, he had to swerve wide and drive on the lawn before pulling out onto the street and driving away.
Taylor just stood there and watched.
“You’re a little feisty, aren’t you?” he said, giving me an approving stare.
“I am a redhead.”
We didn’t talk after that. I only broke the silence to tell him where my bank was. He waited outside when I went in to get my key. Thankfully, one of the tellers there recognized me and opened the box after I explained my situation and showed her my bandages. Once I had the key, I thanked her profusely and promised to come with my library ID so I could get new account cards and make a withdrawal from my account.
The entire way to my house, my stomach was in knots. I wasn’t sure I wanted to see what was left of my beloved home. I knew it wasn’t going to be pretty, and I tried to prepare myself for the reality I was about to face.
Up until now, part of this felt like a bad dream. If I wasn’t sitting here with Holt and feeling the constant nagging of painful burns, I might have been able to convince myself I’d imagined the whole thing.
But then he turned onto my street.
You couldn’t deny what stared you directly in the face.
What was once a sunny yellow two-story home with bright-pink rosebushes lining the front and potted plants decorating the porch now looked like something out of a horror movie.
Some of the structure was partly standing. The remaining timbers were black and brittle looking. The roof had long since caved in and a few scorched shingles littered the ashy covered grass. Most of the walls had fallen down; only two outside walls still partly remained. The concrete steps that once led to the front door were all blackened with fire marks and soot. All the flowerpots that held colorful annuals were shattered. Pieces of clay and dirt lined the once swept clean walkway.
It looked so out of place sitting there in the center of the small, tucked away neighborhood amongst the cheerful houses and blooming flowers. It was almost as if my house resided in a completely different universe than those on each side. Like hell had opened up some sort of portal of destruction, unleashed its wrath on only my little slice of the country, and then vanished, leaving behind the skeletal remains of what was once a peaceful life.
I looked past the house directly into the small backyard, taken up mostly by the kidney shaped pool. Debris floated in the water, pieces of my life that were too ruined to identify. And beside it… sitting on the concrete just beside the pool…
Was a chair.
My chair.
The one I was tied to.
In fact, a length of rope still lay coiled beneath it.
I felt as if I were in a vacuum and the memories of my attempted murder were trying to suck me up where all I could do was relive them over and over again.
“I should have had that moved,” Holt said, coming up just behind me to stand.
I tore my gaze away from the chair, away from the rope that tried to hold me hostage. “The police told me they would let me know when the house was clear, and I could search it for anything that might have survived,” I told him as a breeze ruffled my hair. It also drifted the still lingering scent of melted plastic and burned timber toward us. “But by the looks of things, there isn’t going to be anything left to save.”
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, his fingers brushing across mine.
I looked over my shoulder at him. “It’s okay. Just about everything can be replaced.”
“Just about?” he asked curiously.
I nodded. “There was on
e thing that could never be replaced.” The realization caused an ache to erupt inside me. I felt a loss that I didn’t think I would ever have to feel again. How would I survive something like that twice?
I didn’t realize that I swayed on my feet until a strong arm wrapped around my waist and offered some support.
Torch (Take It Off) Page 6