Chapter 4

Or stubborn.

Possibly both.

It’s unsettling. And worse… It’s getting to me. He’s reaching parts of me that I’m not ready for. I don’t think I’ll ever be ready.

It’s why my apartment is spotless. You could eat off every surface. Cleaning keeps my hands busy, keeps my mind from wandering to the way his voice drops when he’s tired, or how he positions himself between me and the door without thinking.

He says he takes his job seriously.

Fine. Good. He can stop now.

I’m not going to die. The thought still makes my stomach flip and my pulse race. Trauma doesn’t care about logic.

I can’t go back to work yet. I’d fall behind. My arm still gives out, and my foot aches when I’m up too long. Physical therapy means leaving the apartment—means exposure—and I’m not ready. I know it’s slowing my healing by not going, but I’m delaying what’s to come. Will I ever be ready?

When I moved here, I needed a job. I didn’t expect Star. Or the way she gave me something to focus on when my past threatened to swallow me whole. Whispering Waters was supposed to be my reset. My escape.

Away from the pain.

Away from the hurt.

Away from my past.

Instead of scrubbing the counter raw, my gaze drifts to the unopened box tucked away in my bedroom. Star’s idea of workplace perks, and I’ve never touched any of them. Strangely enough, I’ve never thrown it away either.

Sex—pleasure of any means—is a door I closed on purpose.

So why does Clay’s presence make it creak open? Why am I having second and third thoughts on the idea?

I hate the attraction. Hate that my body reacts when my heart is closed. I’ve overheard him on the phone late at night. Low voice. Sweet words. He has someone.

Someone important to him and his life. He needs to go home because I won’t be held responsible for another relationship being destroyed.

He doesn’t need me. I can’t be that someone, and I don’t want to be. I’ll call Knight’s office to request a reassignment. Today.

The kitchen is immaculate. There’s nothing left to clean.

Which means there’s nothing left to avoid.

Now what?

The mailbox waits outside. It’s time to get this over with, then move on for the next three hundred and sixty-four days until the next reminder.

Snow falls again, thick and relentless.

I pull on my coat, hat, gloves, and one boot. My heart pounds harder with every layer. By the time I’m ready, I’m overheated, my breath shallow.

I can do this. I can show Clay that I’m fine.

I grab the shovel and step outside, already bracing for the envelope I know will be there.

Clay

Fuck, it’s cold as I step out of her spare bedroom.

Snow drifts past the windows, thick and steady, and I’d bet my truck that it’s barely ten degrees outside. Doesn’t she have her heat on?