Maybe It's You

by Candace Calvert

  “It’s me, and . . . happy birthday, Mom.”

  21

  “IT’S AMAZING,” Sloane said, meaning it. She turned her head, drinking in the incredible view of the Los Angeles skyline, gone all Star Wars galaxy in the purple night sky. Taillights zinged like red strobes on the freeways, streetlights pooled golden on asphalt, and twinkling high-rises were silhouetted in the fuzzy far distance like they’d breached the end of the planet.

  Millions and millions of lights. Earthly dazzle vying with the heavens . . .

  “People always expect the Hollywood sign to be lit at night,” Micah said, glancing in its direction. From where they sat on the outlook beyond the trail, its pale letters were discernible but without fanfare. “That’s a residential area, though.”

  Sloane’s skin shivered unexpectedly as Micah moved and his shoulder brushed hers. There was just enough of a breeze to lift a thatch of his hair, let her catch a hint of his scent. Masculine, clean like a freshly ironed shirt, and maybe a little cologne. With juniper . . .

  “I remember Mom saying something about the last time they lit it,” Sloane said, hauling her senses back in check. “The mayor and Jay Leno flipped the switch.” She chuckled. Her mother never missed a celebrity detail. “It was a millennium celebration, part of the fireworks show. She said they lit the sign up in all these colors.”

  “Right, New Year’s Eve 1999,” Micah agreed.

  The year I ran off . . .

  “We were living here then. Burbank,” Micah said. “By Grace was asked to appear at a combined worship service for one of the big churches. Everyone was predicting there’d be a huge computer blackout. The whole date-bug Y2K scare. Stephen and I expected we’d be picking our guitars in the dark. I told him to sing and pretend it was me so maybe I’d get a few fans for a change.”

  “You were performing with them?”

  “Once in a while,” Micah said, shrugging it off. “Anyway, no power outage, no computer crash. No fan club.”

  “And Jay Leno lit up the sign,” Sloane added, trying to get past the contrast of Micah playing worship music in front of thousands and her shoving her dead father’s crucifix into a backpack before crawling out her window.

  “Yep,” Micah said, his shoulder brushing hers once again as he turned to gaze at Mount Lee. “People came up Beachwood Drive by the thousands to see it, creating a traffic jam that basically trapped everyone in the canyon. And prevented first responders from getting in too. A lot of folks up there still cringe at the memory of ’99.”

  “I’m sure.” Sloane wished there were a way to pull the plug on her own bad memories of that year.

  They were quiet for a moment, looking out at the lights. Sloane tried to remember the last time she’d done something like this. Something so simple.

  “Were you still living in Fresno back then?” Micah asked.

  Simple? Was she that much of a fool?

  “No . . . not Fresno,” Sloane told him, weighing how much she could say without directly lying. Being sober had stolen that dubious talent and left too many raw feelings in its wake. She wasn’t always sure the trade-off was worth it. AA addressed it, of course: “The trouble with feeling better is that you feel better.”

  “I left home when I was almost sixteen,” Sloane admitted. “When things heated up with my stepfather. I went to live with my godparents. I finished high school there.”

  “Where?”

  “Up north. The Fort Bragg area. It was good, I guess,” she said, feeling a twinge of guilt. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d talked with them. “No movie stars. No red carpet walks—except in church.” Sloane shook her head. “I was baptized in Mendocino. Never thought it would happen. Not to someone like me.”

  Micah wasn’t sure how to respond. This woman was an intriguing mix of strength and vulnerability. So complex . . .

  “He said something about that,” Sloane said, her tone wistful in the near darkness.

  “Who?” Micah asked, suddenly very aware of Sloane’s physical presence beside him. The way the pale overhead reflection—city lights, maybe stars—played off the planes of her face. Cheekbones, sharp chin, straight nose . . . lush lips. “Who said what?”

  “Sir George.” Sloane hinted at a smile. “Feet-soak wisdom.”

  Micah was struck again by that humble image of a critical care nurse . . . caring. “What did he say?”

  “Something about birds. And God.” Sloane’s voice was soft. “He thanked me. And at first he said a few things about rescue missions and how no one knows how to make real gravy anymore. Then he started talking about sparrows. I thought it was a poem.” She shrugged. “He’s been telling people he was a professor of poetry. Occasionally I try to give people the benefit of the doubt.”

  Except me. You weren’t going to do that for the ad man. Micah hoped he was past being her exception now.

  “Anyway, I was soaping his feet and expecting a poem, but I think he was quoting Scripture. He said something about the price of sparrows being two for a penny. And ‘your Father’s care’ . . . and then he said we shouldn’t be afraid, because each of us is ‘worth more than many sparrows.’”

  “Book of Matthew, I think.”

  “Yes. It rang a bell from my non-Hollywood red carpet days.” Sloane rubbed her arms, stared out at the cityscape, quiet for a stretch. Then she turned to Micah. “Do you believe that?”

  “You’re not asking if I think Sir George is a poet.”

  “No,” Sloane said. “I meant, do you believe everyone’s worthy in God’s eyes?”

  “I do.”

  “I’d like to think it’s true. But I don’t know.”

  “I think I get that,” Micah said, pretty sure he knew where Sloane was going with the thought. “When we see bad things happen. Like to that girl in the alley, my cousin . . . your mother?” He hoped he hadn’t stepped too far. “I think it’s part of the reason I work with the crisis team. I can’t do much about the victims, but showing up for the survivors is important. Listening, showing them they matter. Even in the middle of chaos, even when everything seems so lost.” Micah cleared his throat. “I think it’s part of God’s plan, bringing people together that way. Like you and the poet today. That man had a full belly, clean clothes, and happier feet because you were there. At that moment in time, you were proof of his worth to God.”

  Sloane’s eyes lifted toward Micah’s, huge and shiny with tears.

  “Hey,” he said. “Did I say something wrong?”

  “No. Maybe too right. For someone like me.”

  “I can’t believe that.” Micah realized he’d taken her hand, or maybe she’d reached for his. Either way, it was making it hard to breathe, let alone talk. “From what I’ve seen, you deserve far more credit than that.”

  Sloane made a small sound; Micah wasn’t sure if it was a sigh or groan.

  “I meant what I said before,” he continued. “You’re special, Sloane. I’ve never met anyone quite like you.”

  “It’s . . . complicated. You don’t know me.”

  “But I want to. That’s the point.” He drew her hand against his chest. “I’m saying I like you. I’d like to see more of you.” Micah smiled. “Imagine that as a poem.”

  Sloane found a laugh, a miracle since her heart had escaped her chest and lodged somewhere in her throat. This sudden dizziness had nothing to do with the Hollywood Bowl trail. Micah was holding her hand against his shirt, and she swore she felt his heart beneath the fabric.

  “I want to kiss you,” he said very simply. “You might say . . . right now I am the face of hope.”

  She smiled, equally afraid she was about to cry or to grab him and make an even more complete fool of herself.

  “Maybe?” Micah asked, leaning in a fraction.

  “Very poetic,” Sloane said finally. “And yes.”

  “Well then . . .”

  She was still struggling to recall if any man, ever, had asked permission to touch her when Micah cradled her fa
ce between his hands. He studied her for a moment before dipping low and touching his lips gently to her cheek. Then her forehead.

  “You’re so beautiful,” he said, leaning back a few inches but still close enough that his breath warmed her skin. “And soft and . . .”

  She closed her eyes, felt herself begin to tremble as Micah’s lips met hers. Lightly at first, then more thoroughly as his hands moved to the nape of her neck, holding her and guiding her into his kiss. His mouth was warm, gentle but firm, and tasted a little like the chocolates they’d shared.

  She slid her arms around his back and tipped her head, responding to his kiss. Eager to give herself to the moment and yet edgy-anxious that this couldn’t be as new and wonderful as it felt—that in the end, nothing would be different. Because Sloane really wasn’t. Couldn’t be.

  She drew away, ending the kiss. “We should probably head back to the car?”

  “Ah, right,” Micah murmured, his voice husky. He traced a finger along her face, tipping her chin up again to give her one last, quick kiss. “LA traffic. Work in the morning. Reality is overrated.”

  “But there’s still some chocolate left in the car,” Sloane reminded. “For incentive.”

  “Yes, well . . .” Micah smiled, his thumb brushing her lip. “Nice try. No comparison.”

  “He’ll be back. You should leave,” Char insisted, sliding her hands from the gel nail dryer. She glanced at the door, chewing her lower lip. The jittery redhead looked so much younger without her usual heavy makeup. But then, she was probably no more than sixteen. Dabs of concealer dotted her pale forearms, an attempt to hide needle marks. They might as well have been handcuffs. “Vladi might remember you,” she warned Zoey. “I don’t want anything to happen. Please.”

  “I’ll go. In a minute.”

  Zoey blinked against the pervasive scent of acetone. The manicurist at the station next to Char’s turned on a nail drill. She and Char were both on tight leashes; Stack had called to say his business was taking longer than expected. He told her to get something to eat on her own tonight. He’d sounded distracted, irritable. She met Char’s gaze. “I need to know what you’ve heard. About Oksana and everything that’s going on.”

  Char checked the door again, then leaned over the dryer toward Zoey. “She’s still on all those machines. They’re thinking maybe she has brain damage.”

  Zoey’s stomach lurched.

  “Viktor’s hoping it’s true.” Char checked the door again. “You should really go.”

  “But what about the rest of the girls? Do you think they’re going to move you out of LA?”

  “Looks like it, but . . .” Char’s teeth tortured her lower lip again. “Some of the girls are talking about getting away first.”

  “Away?”

  “Out. That plan Oksana was working on. There are people who want to help.”

  Zoey’s skin prickled. “Can you trust these people? Who are they?”

  “Church folks maybe? I’m not sure. But after Oksana, we’re scared that—” Char gasped, staring at the doorway. “Go. Move—it’s Vladi. Oh no, too late. He sees you.”

  “Turn here?” Micah slowed the SUV as he approached the corner. “This is your street, right?”

  “Yes . . . here.” A small halt in Sloane’s response said she’d be more comfortable if he let her out to walk the rest of the way. “At the end of the cul-de-sac.”

  “I remember,” Micah said, stealing a glance at her. Nervous, obviously. It hadn’t started out that way; in fact, after the kiss—kisses—she’d been the one to reach for his hand on the walk back to the car. They’d made small talk during the drive, but the closer they got to her community, the more she’d begun to perch on the car seat, mention being tired, hint that her house was a mess. It seemed clearer each minute that she wasn’t okay with the idea of inviting him in.

  “Here we are,” Sloane said as Micah slowed to pull into the drive. “I wish I’d bought some coffee.”

  “No problem,” Micah said, braking to a stop. He shifted into park and reached for her hand. “I don’t need coffee. You don’t have to entertain me, Sloane. I should get home too.”

  “Okay.” She relaxed with a small, relieved sigh.

  Micah thought once again that this lovely woman was unlike so many others he’d dated. He’d hoped she might ask him in, for no other reason than he didn’t want the evening to end, but this was okay too. Sloane was worth all the time it took to get to know her.

  “Oh, there’s my landlady,” she said as the main house’s motion sensor lights blinked on. “And . . .”

  Micah caught a glimpse of the woman. With a man who almost looked like—“Is that guy one of our hospital maintenance staff? Jerry something?”

  “Jerry Rhodes,” Sloane confirmed, watching them talk on the porch. “He does some work on the side. He’s helping Celeste with garden boxes.” They’d glanced toward Micah’s idling car, still talking. Her brows pinched. “Well, I should probably go in.”

  “I’ll walk you.”

  “No need. I’m fine.”

  “All right,” Micah told her, getting it. Rhodes was a fellow employee; he didn’t seem like the type to spread stories, but the last thing Micah wanted was to make Sloane uncomfortable.

  “Thank you,” she said, her dark lashes blinking. “The picnic, the view, everything. It was great.”

  “I think so too.” Micah lifted her hand, pressed a light kiss on her fingers. “We should do this again. See more of each other.”

  She’d turned once more to peer toward her neighbor and Rhodes, who’d begun to walk toward a truck parked close by.

  “Thank you, really,” Sloane repeated, sliding her hand from his. “Good night, Micah.”

  “Good night.”

  He resisted the urge to get out and open her door, certain Sloane wouldn’t want that. So he simply watched her hop down from her seat, give a quick wave in the direction of her landlady, then walk toward her door. The porch light switched on as she climbed the steps. She reached into her purse for her keys, then turned and waved. Her smile made his heart turn over. Oh, man . . . He was so hooked.

  Micah watched her disappear into the house, remembering what she’d said earlier when he’d tried to tell her how special she was. “It’s . . . complicated.” She was wrong. This was very simple: Micah wanted to know everything about her—and he’d make that happen.

  Sloane closed the door and leaned back against it, her senses still swirling. Micah hadn’t even kissed her good night, but just the brush of his lips against her fingers was enough to make her question if her legs could carry her to the porch. Her pulse was still fluttering. It had all been so simple, but crazy romantic. The picnic, the chocolate, that view . . . his kisses. No, nothing simple about Micah Prescott’s kisses. But it had been much more.

  “You’re special, Sloane. I’ve never met anyone quite like you.”

  Did he really mean it? And there were the other things he’d said about her being deserving of “more” . . . that he believed everyone had worth in God’s eyes.

  She couldn’t believe she’d talked with Micah about God. Or about her mother and her stepfather. How was that possible? She’d never shared those things with anyone. Not even Paul, to any real degree. What was it about this man that made her feel so safe?

  “I think it’s part of God’s plan, bringing people together that way. Like you and the poet today.”

  And like . . . Micah and me?

  The thought was far too staggering to wrap her mind around. But everything that had seemed impossible, too far out of reach just six months back, was becoming a reality. That she’d survived horrific injuries, been sober since, and found a safe place to live.

  She walked into the living room, cautioning herself not to overthink anything. Hope had never been more than the name of a hospital system that cut her paycheck. Regardless, there was still reason to celebrate. She’d navigated a first date without a drop of liquid courage and with her self-resp
ect intact. She had a job where, apparently, people valued her efforts. She had this great house, a silly cat who was always—

  “Marty?”

  Sloane glanced around the living room, then took a step in the direction of the kitchen. Something was off. Any other time, she could barely get in the door before Marty wrapped himself around her legs, begging to be petted and fed. A rescue cat with a red carpet ego. She loved that about him. “Where are you, guy?”

  So strange.

  “Marty?” Sloane propped her hands on her hips and scanned the small living space again. He had been perched on the back of the couch in front of the window when she went out to the porch to meet Micah. She’d left the window open to the screen a few inches, like she’d been doing lately, to sort of expand his house cat horizons. . . .

  Wait.

  Sloane tensed. Is it possible?

  She climbed onto the couch to inspect the window. The screen was pushed out on one side.

  She raced to the door, flung it open, and stepped onto the porch. “Marty!”

  No sign of him in the flower bed below the window. She peered at the shadows beyond the porch light and called out again. She looked toward the main house, dark now. Jerry’s truck gone. It would waste time to go search for a flashlight. Sloane tried to tell herself her cat was a homebody; he didn’t have a hunting instinct beyond laser play; he’d be afraid of a busy street.

  “Marty!”

  There was a rustle in the area of the darkened side yard and—

  “Lose something?”

  Sloane’s throat closed. No.

  “Hi, babe.”

  Paul stepped from the shadows holding her cat.

  22

  “LUCKY I STOPPED BY.” Paul adjusted his grip on the twitchy, wide-eyed cat. Marty’s ears flattened as Paul attempted to scratch his chin. “She could have run into the street.”

  “Give him to me.” Sloane kept her voice steady despite the fact that her insides had begun to seize. She wasn’t sure if it was fury or fear. “Hand over my cat, Paul.”