Chapter Eight

Natasha

For the first time in months, I park the ATV behind the boathouse at noon on a Monday, trudge up onto the deck, and drop into a chair. I didn't want to come. But I don't have much choice. Gladys is visiting Bella in Seattle, and after Doc didn't show last week, I need to know he's all right.

I shouldn't care. He said everything was fine. That it was just work. Doctors have emergencies that don't involve them. But I haven't slept well since he no-showed. Seeing him will settle me, though I can't figure out why.

Because he didn't text you back.

The truth slams into me so fast, my travel mug slips from my hand. It bounces down the boathouse steps, iced coffee painting the wood all the way to the gravel path. Where the insulated mug stops against a dark brown boot.

Oh, God. My cheeks catch fire. I should move, but I'm stuck to the seat like someone painted it with superglue.

"Now that's a shame." Doc slides his rucksack from his shoulder, leans down, and rescues the mug. "Did you at least get to enjoy some of it?"

I can't tear my gaze from the man. A white t-shirt stretches across his barrel chest. He wears a light flannel, the sleeves rolled up to expose his corded forearms. I'm a sucker for forearms.

The memory of his hands on me is still so fresh, even though it's been more than a year since we touched—since we kissed. Since we almost did so much more…

"Nat?" Concern pinches his brows as he climbs the steps and stops in front of me. "Everything okay?"

"F-fine," I stammer and manage to unglue my ass from the seat so we're on the same level. "That was my third cup today. I guess I'm a little jittery."

Doc presses the mug against my palm. He doesn't let go for several seconds, his deep blue eyes searching mine. For what? The truth? Something more?

"It's good to see you." His voice sends a burst of warmth straight to my core. "I'm sorry about last week."

I retreat a step, needing to put some distance between us before I say—or do—something I can't take back. Like tell him how good it is to see him too. Or how sorry I am that I stayed away for so long.

"You should be. You missed out on some damn fine chocolate chip cookies. I had to take them off Gladys's hands for you. It was a major hardship to eat them all."

His smile highlights the tiny lines around his eyes, but it makes him look ten years younger. "I'll have to make it up to you somehow. Any ideas?"

Well, you could take off your shirt and kiss me again.

But I stop myself from saying the words aloud. Instead, I shrug. "I'll give it some thought."

"So where is our girl?" he asks.

"Don't let Gladys hear you call her that. You'll end up with a batch of sauerkraut next time. Or worse. Lutefisk. She's got some Norwegian in her somewhere." It feels good to joke around with him. Even if I am out of practice. "She's in Seattle. Bella's boyfriend proposed, and she asked Gladys to go dress shopping with her."

"Gladys? In a dress?" Doc's laugh is like a warm hug, and I almost step closer.

"You'd be surprised," I say and shove my hands into the pockets of my shorts so I'm not tempted to reach out and touch him. "I've seen pictures. Did you know she used to work in the governor's office? She likes to say she was ‘downright respectable' when she was young."

"She mentioned that. But I thought she was pulling my leg."

I drop my gaze. What I wouldn't give to see the man in a pair of shorts. Or…out of them. I bet his thighs are impressive.

Say something! Anything!

Except, I'm still stuck in my fantasy world where we're not strangers but something…more. In that world, I can let myself want all those things I'll never have again. A home. Friends. Someone who knows all my secrets—and loves me anyway.

One beat. Two. Three. Silence can kill—or at least maim—and I have to fill it before I start to bleed emotions all over the place.

If I were braver, I'd tell him about the first time I took Gladys to Anacortes. She'd booked a tattoo appointment and wanted company. Then made me sit with her while the artist spent two hours inking a hydrangea flower on her ass.

Instead, I take the coward's way out. "Well, you know where you're going. And you have my number. If you need anything."

The shock on his face as I brush past him cuts deep, and all those emotions I was afraid of come pouring out of me the second I start the ATV. Dammit.

Seeing him—being close enough to touch him—and walking away was too much. I can't do this anymore. Living in a place that makes me want more is harder than being alone. Harder than constantly looking over my shoulder, waiting for one of Bastian's cronies to find me. Harder than watching my brother bleed out in front of me. Because here, I die a little more every single day.

At the end of the season, I'll move on. When I took this job, I thought this tiny island was so far north, maybe I could find some semblance of a home. But I should have known better.

I'll never have a home again.

My legs tangle in the sheets as I flop over, seeking a cool part of the pillow. But it's no use. I'm wide awake, despite my exhaustion.

Damn hormones. At least that's what I'm blaming for tonight's insomnia. It's been happening more and more.

My first year on the run, I rarely slept more than a couple hours at a time. Every noise was a potential threat. But slowly, I started to relax. The first time I made it through an entire night, I wept.

And then a few months after my forty-fifth birthday, my sleep started to go to shit. Right along with my cycle. Being a woman sucks sometimes.

I flip the pillow over and draw my legs up close. Why didn't I go for a long swim this afternoon? That would have helped.

Because the best swimming takes you right by Doc's campsite.

My inner voice doesn't pull her punches.

A dull ache thrums through my nipples as they scrape against my t-shirt, and I shudder. Gladys would tell me to get my ass down the hill and strip naked outside Doc's tent. Or inside of it.

But then I'd lose another piece of myself to the handsome doctor. One night—a handful of passionate kisses and some groping—and I've fantasized about him for over a year. If we actually fucked… God.

That single missing piece has already slowed me down. A second? It could stop me completely.

I can't allow that.

"This is fucking ridiculous," I mutter and swing my legs over the side of the bed. "I don't even know him."

Except, I do. Through Gladys.

I begged her to cover for me whenever Doc was scheduled to show up. And she was only happy to do so. Now, I finally realize why.

She was vetting him. For me. And she told me everything.

He used to work in the ER. Now he spends his weekends at a low-cost clinic in Seattle. He loves thrillers and non-fiction, particularly survival stories. He flies up here on a sea plane he bought a couple of years ago. Hates the gym, but loves rock climbing. He's good with his hands. Knows his way around an electrical box. He can play the guitar.

Did she tell him anything about me?

That would require her to know anything about me. Anything real, anyway.

With a huff, I pull on a pair of loose gray pants and pad out to the kitchen for a glass of water.

But standing at the sink is a mistake. Through the trees, I catch a glimpse of Doc's tent at the bottom of the hill.

Anger and frustration start a war inside me. One so violent, I snatch a glass from the cabinet and slam the door.

No amount of self-talk can keep my gaze from the window. Not even when I reach for the faucet.

A face coalesces in the reflection. Dammit. I need sleep. I'm seeing things. But then something glints in the light from the hall. Metal.

Gun!

Whirling around, I throw the glass with everything I have, then drop to my knees behind the counter.

A thunk followed by a low, male curse chills the blood in my veins. I can't see the asshole, but he's too close. And armed.

There's no crime on the island. Hasn't been for a decade—according to Gladys. He's here for me. To kill me. I stayed too long, and now, I'm out of time.

Focus!

I have to get to my closet. My Glock is in my go bag. It's the only chance I have.

Glass crunches to my left. I tuck and roll to the right, then come up in a crouch. Another few inches, and I'll have a straight shot to the hallway.

I creep forward until a solid weight slams into me. My head hits the corner of the cabinet. The world goes fuzzy. Gloved fingers wrap around my throat. I can't breathe.

Lungs seizing, I drive my elbow back. His grip loosens enough for me to suck in air. My fist rams something soft. The asshole yelps.

That's right, idiot. Should have worn a cup.

Springing to my feet, I head for the hall, but only make it three steps.

An arm bands around my waist. My feet leave the ground. I'm flying. Until I hit the French doors. Glass shatters, slicing my cheek, my hands, my head.

The cuts burn. I'm dizzy. Rough decking scrapes my arm. I roll, and a shot pierces the night. Fiery pain spreads out from my hip. I can't see through the haze of blood dripping into my eyes.

A plank creaks. Too close. I blink hard. His shadow looms over me. I reach for something—anything—I can use as a weapon.

My entire body turns to ice at the metallic click of a hammer. Panic claws its way up my throat. My desperate fingers close around the spout of my watering can. The fancy, heavy one I bought the last time I went to Anacortes with Gladys.

I swing wildly. The metal connects with the man's kneecap. He stumbles. The next shot makes my ears ring.

Scrambling up, I grit my teeth against the pain burning my hip. The motion light winks on—finally—and cold, dark eyes meet mine.

Parker.

A thick scar stretches from his nose down to his jaw. My brother almost killed him eight years ago. If Logan had gotten another inch, the knife would have pierced Parker's carotid. And maybe…I'd still have a family.

The bastard takes a step closer. I back up the same distance. A second step, and he kicks the watering can out of the way. The gun is pointed right at my heart.

"Watch it, asshole. I like that can."

My back hits the railing.

"You're going to pay for what you did, Natasha."

"Eight years, and you couldn't come up with anything more original than that?" Baiting him probably isn't smart. But I can't help it. His line really was ridiculously cliché.

"I was going to kill you quickly. But now, I think I'll take my time." He shifts his aim lower. "I shot your brother in the stomach. It's a very painful way to die."

"Please," I whimper, cowering against the railing. Throwing him off balance is my only hope.

Confusion flashes in his eyes. It's only a second, but that's enough. The gun barrel wavers, and I vault over the railing as he pulls the trigger.