Chapter Seven: Hold My Hand

Chapter Seven

Lincoln

HOLD MY HAND

Performed by The Fray

She had put me in my place with her comment about her privacy. I was demanding she give it up—but only to me. Only so I could sleep at night, knowing she was safe. Not that I'd sleep for long, but she didn't need to know that. Just like she didn't need to know that if she didn't give me this, the insomnia would likely worsen until I was back on the sleeping pills I hated with a passion.

I watched as waves of emotions crossed her expressive face. Sorrow. Anger. Resignation. Sadness. It was the sadness after she'd seemed so light—even after Poco's assault—that hit me the hardest.

"I promise, I'm not going to shout your business to the world," I said, gentling my tone from the growly demand it had been. "I'm asking you to tell one person. To tell me so I rest easier."

Our gazes locked once more, debate warring between us. This morning, I'd backed down, only because I'd realized arguing with her at her work wasn't going to win her over. Instead, I'd gone back to the gallery, unpacked a few more things, and then set up the computer in the window along the street. I'd logged in to another round of messages from my family I hadn't had the energy to answer and deleted another from Felicity that had my jaw clamping tight.

It had been pure luck that when I'd left the gallery, Willow had been exiting the café. I'd tried not to put too much meaning into it as I'd pulled up beside her and demanded she get in. I'd been half surprised when she'd agreed. Just like I was half surprised when she relented now and turned without another word to unlock the cottage door.

I stepped in behind her as she disarmed the alarm system, taking in the low ceilings crisscrossed with exposed beams and the dormer that let in more natural light than the series of tiny windows along the front. The furnishings were very feminine. A creamy-yellow couch littered with a multitude of floral pillows, and a striped, mint-and-cream armchair that matched the sheer curtains.

It felt sweet and sunshiny.

It felt decidedly like Willow, even though she'd said she lived there with her mother.

She tossed her patchwork bag and coat over the arm of the couch before making her way toward the kitchen separated from the living area by an island of brick and granite. The cabinets were painted a modern white, proving the place had been renovated sometime in this century, even though the cottage felt like stepping back in time.

"Tea?" she asked.

"No, but thank you."

Silence settled between us. Not uneasy exactly but edgy. Both hers and mine. She didn't want to talk, and yet I couldn't let go of the idea that she needed protection. Even recognizing my need to shield her was a result of the baggage of my past, I couldn't walk away. I wouldn't let another woman be hurt, knowing I could have prevented it.

She fiddled with the edge of a towel covering a large rectangular pan on the island. Alongside it were jars of colorful pastes, paintbrushes, and stacks of culinary tools I'd only seen in professional kitchens. It was a weird mix of baking and art supplies.

Curious, I nodded toward the items. "What are you making?"

She practically glowed at the question, a smile taking over her face that turned her into a dazzling display so bright it was hard to look straight at her. "Just playing around with an idea."

Willow tucked the towel closer to the pan, clearly unwilling to share more, which only piqued my curiosity. She was a series of contradictions—shiny vivacity and quiet mysteries—that would have intrigued me even if my body wasn't already craving her. And there was no denying that it did.

How had I gotten here? All but forcing my way into her house and requiring replies to questions she had no obligation to answer.

I tore my gaze away from her glow, and my eyes caught on a large picture hanging on the wall near the archway leading to the bedrooms. It was a photograph of Willow and an older blond-haired woman. They had their arms around each other, cheeks pressed together. The woman was a sturdier, slightly taller version of Willow with blue eyes instead of gray. A sadness dripped from her gaze defying the happy tilt of her lips.

"Your mom?" I asked, and she nodded. "Where is she?"

"She teaches science at the high school."

It was a brief answer, and it caused a wary look to slip over her face, which only increased my desire to unlock all her secrets. I wanted to find out everything there was to know about Willow. Not just the why of the cemetery or what had her scared enough to not call the police. I wanted to know where she'd grown up, and why they'd moved here, and where her father was. I wanted to know how she ended up baking scones at three in the morning when she looked like she should have been shouldering a backpack onto the Bonnin campus and sitting through boring lectures.

"You said you'd lived here for six years. What brought you to Cherry Bay?" I asked.

She curled a finger around the edge of the cloth and then said, "After my dad passed away, we needed a fresh start." Her eyes darted up and away as she spoke, as if what she said was only a partial truth, but it also gave me a glimpse of the pain that shot through her eyes at the mention of her father.

"Losing someone you love is hard," I said carefully. I wouldn't say sorry. I wouldn't offer some half-assed condolence, because nothing could curb the pain of real loss. The grief was always with you, some days burning like a flaming sword, other days a soft flicker of a sputtering candle.

Her head tilted sideways, taking me in, and I wondered if she was thinking of the old news articles on me. How I'd been close to death multiple times. How too many women I'd loved had violence impact their lives. Accidents. Gunshots. Stalkers chasing them.

"Is that why you were up at two in the morning?" she asked. "Your losses haunting you?"

It skimmed closer to the truth than I normally cared to acknowledge, and yet I was surprised by the urge to spew all my secrets to her . I clamped my lips together. I'd already given her more than I could afford. I felt oddly soothed by her presence. Comfortable in her space.

Comfortable and yearning for more. A taste of her sugary sweetness.

When was the last time I'd craved someone like this? Hungered for anything other than my art? Maybe not since Sienna and my wild teen infatuation. I certainly hadn't felt this way with Lyrica. That had simply been pleasure in finding someone who loved the same things you did. Dance. Art. Escape.

The T-shirt Willow wore clung to her slim frame. The muscles I'd seen earlier as she'd lifted the tray at The Tea Spot were more obvious now without the apron that had hidden her earlier. She had small breasts, lifted high, and full hips I wanted to explore. The layers of her chiffon skirt flowed down to her feet, giving me only shadowy glimpses of the toned legs I'd noticed earlier. I wanted to uncover all of her. See all of her. Splash her on canvas. Cut her from stone.

While I hadn't been prepared to let a woman into my life again, now that Willow had thundered in, temptation was knocking at the doors I'd sealed shut, tapping loudly and insisting I open up to the possibility of letting someone new inside my walls.

Ask her out. The voice in my head startled me, sounding decidedly Sienna-like. It had me glancing both ways for a translucent figure I hadn't seen in years. The back of my neck prickled before I assured myself it was only Katerina's voice. After all, my sister was the one badgering me to put Felicity behind me.

Willow shifted, drawing my eyes to her hand tugging at her necklace and her teeth biting her lower lip. I'd been staring at her for way too long. What had she said? Something about my losses haunting me?

"More like a new house keeping me up," I told her. "New sounds. Or rather a lack of sounds? I'm still getting used to the quiet."

It wasn't a full lie any more than I imagined her response about her dad had been. But I think she knew, just as I had, that neither of us had been completely honest.

"So, the cemetery?" I asked.

She played a shell game with the colorful jars on the counter, avoiding my eyes as she said, "It's peaceful there at night."

Another half-truth.

"And?" I pushed.

Her fingers stilled, and when she looked up, I got a glimpse of sadness again. "They deserve to be remembered."

Those words lodged deep in my soul. I'd spent over a decade ensuring that Sienna would never be forgotten.

"Who?" I breathed out.

"Any of them. All of them." She tugged on her chain again.

Confusion drew my brows together.

She chuckled softly. "I sound dark and broody, don't I?" She paused, as if debating saying more, and then shrugged. "My dad is buried…in our old town. I don't get to visit his grave. I guess I just hope someone will do for him what I'm doing here. Seeing them. Thinking about them. Acknowledging they had a life. Saying their name aloud so they aren't lost."

It was beautiful and tragic. It made me want to add another layer to the charcoal drawing I'd started of her and the cemetery, blending names onto the gravestones so they faded away and yet still stood out.

"Is there a reason you have to do that at two in the morning?" I asked.

Her eyes sparkled with humor as she replied, "There's nothing gothic or dark about the timing. I don't go because it's the middle of the night. It's simply the time I get up. If I went to work at eight, I'd be there at seven."

"Maybe you should start visiting after work instead of before?" I suggested dryly.

"The real question is what was Poco doing there at two in the morning with a shovel?"

I frowned. I hadn't seen a shovel. "You've never seen him there before?"

She shook her head.

"Do you think he was stalking you? Watching your house?"

"No."

"I have cameras surrounding my house. I'll reposition some so they face the cottage," I offered.

"We have our system too. You don't have—" she stopped herself. "Thanks, that would be really kind of you."

It wasn't a good idea for me to drag my dark around her light. Given my track record with relationships, the likelihood of things ending well was almost nil if I pursued the longing for her growing exponentially by the minute. And yet, I knew it wasn't just my desire to protect her that had me saying, "I'd like to walk you to work for a while."

Her brows raised. "At two-thirty?" She shook her head again, moonlight strands swinging about her. "I don't think so."

"Just for a few days," I pressed. "I can guarantee I won't be asleep."

Even though she hadn't been moving, it still felt like her entire being froze before she slowly breathed out, "Because of me?"

The answer was complicated. But I kept the demons of my past to myself because I knew what happened when you let them out. "For many reasons, of which you'll be one."

"Lincoln, I'm fine. I don't know how to convince you that nothing is going to happen."

She couldn't guarantee it. But then again, neither could I. A change of tactics was required in order to get her to agree, so I tried a teasing taunt instead of a demand. "We'll start a club. We'll call it Night Risers Unite ."

Her laugh was enticingly merry, a song I wanted to dance to, and it brought the beaming smile back to her face. The one so dazzling it flung aside the natural dimness of the cottage.

"It sounds like a vampire book," she snickered. "I'd be decidedly out of place." She glanced down at her pink-and-white outfit, and my gaze followed hers. The skirt she wore was graceful. Gauzy and dreamy. Angelic even.

"As a proverbial vampire, I can guarantee you are exactly what would attract one. It isn't the dark of their world that draws them. It's the light they hunger to absorb."

She blushed prettily. The pink skimmed her cheeks, blending with the freckles and amplifying the attraction humming through my veins. Desire seemed to wrap a string around us, knotting and tightening until it felt as if the counter was no longer between us. Until it felt as if our bodies were slammed together.

I stepped back. Afraid if I didn't leave, I might actually try to take a bite of her.

As I headed for the door, the knot that had drawn itself around me seemed to tighten further. Rather than snapping, the string grew tauter, tethering me to her with an unyielding bond.

It was uncomfortable. Troubling. But instead of breaking it, I did the opposite and drew it closer by saying, "Tell me what time to meet you in the morning."

As she joined me at the door, I sensed rather than saw her hesitation, and I just continued as if she'd already agreed. "I'd say text me when you're ready to leave the house, but I'm notorious for losing my phone. Just tell me what time to meet you."

"As I don't have your number, it would be impossible for me to text you anyway." She started to laugh before it turned into a garbled choke. "That wasn't me hinting at wanting it. I wasn't flirting…"

As her voice disappeared, the color on her cheeks deepened, enticing me all over again. It drew me to her sweetness as much as her light. I shoved my fists into my pockets so I wouldn't slide a finger along the fascinating bloom.

"Nothing wrong with flirting, Willow." I caressed her with my voice the way I longed to with my hands. "It's a delightful little dance, and I thoroughly enjoy dancing."

Her pale irises the color of clouds drifting across a shimmery sky expanded, and I wondered just how stormy they would get in the throes of passion.

We stood at the door, desire wafting between us. Her gaze slipped to my mouth, and it only increased my ache to taste hers. To savor every inch of her.

She was temptation and inspiration and damnation.

I cleared my throat. "What time?"

She sighed, palming her necklace again, and this time, I saw the charm was actually a class ring. Masculine and oversized. Jealousy flooded my veins. She belonged to someone? Where was he? Why wasn't he here defending her? I wanted to hunt him down and demand answers.

When she still hesitated, I growled, "What time, Willow?"

"If I don't go to the cemetery, I leave the house at two-thirty." She breathed it out, letting go of the ring. I barely resisted the urge to grab it and discover who it belonged to before it hit me that it might have belonged to her father. The man she'd lost.

The intensity of my own reaction to her, bouncing from anger to jealousy to desire to laughter, made me feel like I was finally losing my sanity. As if I'd finally collapsed from sleeplessness into a dream world that would never again reach a solid shore.

And that, more than anything, had me giving her a curt nod and striding out the door, hoping to break the tenacious grip she'd sunk into me.

Except, as I walked down the path toward her gate, the string that had seemed to bind us only grew tauter, pushing at my Adam's apple until my breath was rocky and uneven. And I knew, with a painful certainty, it wouldn't release until I'd found myself at her side once more.