Chapter 2

TWO

Ava

I had not expected to run into him so soon. That little kick in my gut when I saw him carrying that little girl, the one that came from assuming she was his and there was a wife somewhere else in the store wearing his ring? That was something of a jolt. I mean, yeah, he's hot. So. Freaking. Hot. But that wasn't a "slightly disappointed because I can't jump his bones" kick. It was more of a gut punch, and that was concerning.

No strings, no complications and no heartache. That was my rule when it comes to men. They're great and all, but the minute you start to depend on them, then shit goes sideways. And yes, that's a maladaptive response related to childhood trauma, but being a therapist doesn't also mean you don't need to have a therapist.

He's been in my head and that's not good. It's not good because the way we met was so messy. It wasn't this controlled thing. Meet online. Exchange messages. Meet up for coffee. Progress until someone catches feelings and then move on. No. He literally saved my ass. Which means that attraction is all tangled up with gratitude and with this false notion that somehow he's safe. I need to be my own safety, my own security. I sure as hell don't need to keep looking for that outside myself.

I hit the self-checkout and, on impulse, throw a bag of M&M's on the belt. That'll be the only indulgence I have for the night.

The next morning, my fuel‐light indicator comes on in my beat-up, little car as I'm heading for the office. I don't work there a lot. Most of my appointments take place in school. In the summer, I'll do home visits, but I try to avoid that as much as possible. It's not always safe, and safety is the watchword for me these days. After that mess with Wade Bartlette the other night, the idea of keeping work and home entirely separate is very appealing to me.

Swinging into the gas station parking lot, I pull up to one of the pumps and swipe my card. When it goes through, I lift the handle and fill the tank, trying not to wince at the cost.

"We've got to stop meeting like this."

I glance up and realize instantly that it was a mistake. I knew it was him. I recognized that voice. I've only heard it twice and I already know it. "You following me, Ranger?"

"I was here first," he says, pointing to the coffee cup bearing the gas station's logo.

I shrug. "Umm hmm. Likely story … Your granddaughter was super cute. Smart kid."

At the mention of her, it's like all the tension just melts from him and behind his beard, his lips curve upward. "Oh, she's smart alright. Way too smart for her own good or mine … Thanks. I'll tell her you said so and she'll preen like a peacock all day."

Indulgent. Proud. Affectionate. It's all there in his tone, his words, his body language. I was reading people long before I had a degree or a license to do so. Survival skills have a way of sticking around long after the threat is gone. Incongruity has always been the thing that set off my warning bells. There's none of that in him. Everything I'm seeing in him says he's the mean what you say and say what you mean type. "Since you know where I live, maybe I can cook dinner for you. It's the least I can do to say thank you."

I don't know who is more surprised by that offer, me or him. I hadn't intended to make it. Hadn't even been on the radar. But it had fallen out of my mouth and was now hanging between us. I don't know if I'm more worried that he'll say yes or that he'll say no.

Finally, after a long moment of silence, he looked at me sharply. "Exactly how old are you, Ava Stanfield?"

"Does that really matter?" I ask with a laugh. "I'm definitely legal."

"Oddly enough, yeah. It does," he says, with a slightly sheepish expression.

I shrug. "I'm thirty‐two."

Instantly, he seems to relax. He reaches into his pocket and produces a business card which he passes to me. "You just text me and tell me when."

I look down at the card. Ranger Farrier Services, LLC. "Why did it matter how old I was?"

"I make it a point not to involve myself with women who are young enough to be my daughter… You beat the cut off, Ava. But not by much."

Oh, yeah. This man is dangerous. K. R. Y. P. T. O. N. I. T. E.

"I said dinner, Ranger. Not involved."

He steps toward me. It's not menacing. It's not at all threatening. But it still has me backing up a step because that's just what I do. Immediately, he stops. He cocks his head to one side like he's evaluating my response. "Last time I checked, Ava, we were both allowed to have intentions … There are a lot of ways to say thank you that don't include inviting me into your home. You figure out what your intentions are, darlin', then you let me know."

With that, he turns and walks toward a large, black truck. He tosses up his hand in a wave as he pulls out of the parking lot.

I am so fucked.

Hanging up the nozzle for the gas pump, I debate for all of two seconds about whether or not to go inside. In the end, I cross the parking lot and walk into that building, making a beeline for the candy aisle.

Behind the counter, Ashley is giving me a look. I know her through Emma. I've worked with her sister on countless cases.

"You need to jump on that," she says. "Climb him like a tree and do not let go."

"Just being friendly," I lie.

She laughs at me. "The two of you were any friendlier with each other and you'd be in violation of the burn ban. Matches don't start fires, Ava. But people do. And the two of you, even from this distance, looked combustible."

Live in a small town, they said. It ' s nicer and safer in a small town, they said. Yeah, it's only safe because every single person in the county limits knows everything about everyone. I put my bag of peanut M&M's on the counter. "The downfall of the recently coupled up, Ashley, is that they see romance everywhere they look."

"I never said romance, Ava. That was all you. I just said heat," she points out. "Subconsciously projecting? But you're the counselor. Not me."

I pay for my candy and open the bag on the way to the car. It's not even nine a.m. and already day one hundred and ninety-eight of my year of self‐improvement is shot to hell.