Chapter 7

I jolted upright, ripped from sleep. My heart raced and my lungs heaved as I fought to draw in oxygen, my mind spinning incoherently as I tried to place exactly what it was that had woken me. Fear pinned me in place, and my gaze flew around the room.

Everything was the same. My door was still closed, the lock in place. The window next to the bed was closed, the clothes I'd dropped on the floor last night untouched.

And suddenly I remembered. I wasn't alone.

I scrambled from the bed, tossing the covers aside and tripping over a shoe in my haste to get to the door. Had something happened to Smith? Was that what had pulled me from sleep?

I twisted the lock then yanked open the door, stumbling into the hallway half-crazed. A small voice in the back of my mind screamed that I was unarmed, completely helpless to stop anyone. But all that mattered was getting to him.

A familiar sound tickled my memory just as I lunged into the kitchen. Smith turned to look at me from his place in front of the stove, and I blinked uncomprehendingly for a moment. "Is everything okay? Are you hurt?"

His head cocked slightly to one side, his dark eyes filled with concern and wariness as he studied me. He set down the spatula before slowly approaching and pulling out a chair. I melted into it, my rubbery legs unable to hold me up any longer.

Remnants of worry still coursed through my body, and I tucked my shaky hands between my thighs. "I'm sorry, I…"

Smith retrieved a glass from the cupboard, then filled it with orange juice and set it in front of me. I didn't trust myself to pick it up yet without spilling it, so I offered a small smile. "Thanks."

He shook his head, then grasped my wrist, slowly extracting my hand and pressing the cup into my palm. The glass was cool, and it helped to soothe my fraught nerves. Smith towered over me, brows pulled together as he stared intently, silently commanding me to drink.

My fingers trembled, and his large hand wrapped lightly around mine as he helped guide the glass to my lips. I took a small sip, then another, before replacing it on the table. "I thought something happened," I explained. "I was worried, and…"

His frown became even more pronounced as he stared at me. I probably sounded ridiculous. This man was obviously more than capable of caring for himself. He didn't need me rushing to his rescue. My cheeks flared, and I focused on my drink, slowly draining the cup.

Smith eventually moved away, returning to the stove. I studied his efficient movements as he flipped the pancakes and turned the eggs in the pan. My gaze flitted over the room. "Where's the other chair?"

Using the spatula, he pointed to the living room. The kitchen chair was settled in the corner of the room, looking incredibly out of place. "Why is it there?"

He turned the eggs once more, then pointed from the back door to the front door. "So you can see both doors?" I interpreted.

He nodded, and I turned that bit of information over in my mind. He'd clearly been in the kitchen for a while since he was almost finished with breakfast. Why move the chair into the living room if?—

"Wait." My gaze slid to the sheets stretched over the couch, unwrinkled and still perfectly in place, then back to Smith. "Did you sleep there?"

He shook his head, but even in my half-awakened state, I recognized that wasn't the full truth. Possibilities flickered through my mind then, like a bolt of lightning, it hit me. "You kept watch." I gaped at him. "That's not where you slept. It's where you sat so you could watch the house."

He just shrugged like it was the most normal thing in the world. I was out of my chair before I realized what I was doing. "Is someone after you? We should call the police."

I spun toward my room so I could get my phone, but a hand clamped down on my arm, halting my progress. Smith twisted me back to him so quickly that my nose bumped his broad chest. Fear skittered through me as I tried to yank myself from his grasp to no avail. His fingers dug into my upper arms, and my blood thrummed in my ears, sending my pulse into a tailspin.

I shoved at his chest, kicking at his shins. With a sickening, heart-stopping move, he had me pinned less than a second later between the wall and his muscular body. My cheek pressed to the cool drywall, and I closed my eyes against the tears that burned across my nose. His hands moved to my flailing arms, firmly but gently gripping my wrists. My chest rose and fell rapidly as I dragged in breath after breath, my lungs feeling too tight in my chest.

Smith levered his body away from mine, giving me space but keeping hold of me. His thumbs swept in gentle arcs over the pulse points inside my wrists. The motion should have been soothing, a silent confirmation that I was safe.

I hated it. I despised that he could so easily dominate me and take control. More than that, I hated his silent apology for doing so. He was a complete contradiction, and it infuriated me that I couldn't figure him out.

I went utterly still, barely even breathing. Several seconds passed, and I could feel his gaze on me, his fingers testing my pulse, assessing me. Almost reluctantly his hands slid away. I took a moment to school my features before turning to face him. "Guess we won't call the cops, then."

My tone was completely emotionless, and Smith moved in front of me as I strode toward the table. I met his eyes, forcing myself not to react. His brows pulled together as his gaze locked with mine. "Are you running from them? From the police?"

I tried my best to keep the question neutral, but my voice came out shaky. Smith shook his head, and relief coursed through me. I didn't want to believe he'd done anything illegal, and strangely enough I believed him. "Running from someone else?"

He hesitated a long moment, and I raised a brow his way. "If we're in danger?—"

He abruptly shook his head, and I let out a harsh breath. Something was obviously wrong, but he refused to tell me or go to the police. "So you're not in danger, but you are trying to evade someone."

His eyes flashed as he swept a hand through his thick, dark hair. "I need to know," I insisted.

Finally, he shook his head. My stomach pitched violently as I studied him. I'd gotten an answer—I just wasn't entirely sure it was the truth.

This time when I scooted around him, he let me go. I sank into the seat at the table, twirling my glass between my hands for lack of anything better to do. Smith moved back to the stove where he served up the eggs and pancakes, then slid one plate to me. Since I didn't have any syrup, he'd placed butter and jam on the table. I waited to eat until he'd hauled in the second chair from the living room.

My gaze slid toward the couch, taking in the pristine sheets. I shook my head. I couldn't believe he'd spent the night in the chair. I was both exasperated and touched that he'd taken it upon himself to watch out for me. But his actions only raised more questions than answers.

He said he wasn't running from the cops, yet he refused to reach out to them. Because he felt he couldn't trust them? I understood that some people were wary of law enforcement, but our local sheriff was one of the most noble men I'd ever met. He truly cared for the community and would do whatever he could to help. Maybe once Smith had been here for a while, I could convince him to talk with Eric.

Once he'd settled across from me, I dug into my pancake. It was light and fluffy, perfectly sweet, even without syrup. I was grudgingly impressed. "I think you should just cook from now on."

He snorted but the corners of his lips twitched as he scooped up a huge bite and shoveled it into his mouth. Despite the fact that he'd piled almost twice as much onto his plate, we finished almost simultaneously.

An idea suddenly came to me, and I kicked myself for not thinking of it sooner. "If it's easier for you, we could use my phone to type out messages."

Smith dipped his chin in acknowledgment as he grabbed our plates and strode toward the sink, but otherwise gave no indication of wanting to communicate with me. I rolled my eyes. Figured.

I left him to rinse the dishes while I headed to my room to change and get ready for work. When I came back out, he was standing in the kitchen, staring at me expectantly.

"I have to go to work. I'll be back around five. There should be lunch meat in the fridge and snacks in the cupboard. Help yourself to whatever. Make a list of what you want and we'll go shopping this weekend."

I grabbed my keys off the counter and headed for the door. "Oh, and?—"

I turned toward him as I spoke, but my words were abruptly cut off as I bounced off a rock-hard chest. Two large hands steadied me, and I peered up at Smith. "What are you doing?"

He pointed over my shoulder toward the door like it was the most obvious thing ever. I blinked. "You can't come to work with me."

One dark brow ratcheted toward his hairline. I blew out a harsh breath. "I'm working. What kind of trouble do you expect me to get into at a floral shop?"

He shrugged, and I rolled my eyes. "You're not coming."

The corner of his mouth twitched, and I smacked his chest. "Seriously. I'm leaving now."

I yanked open the door and let out a huff as he stepped outside behind me. I whirled around. "What part of this don't you understand? I'm going to work. You're staying here." I crossed my arms over my chest. "That's final."

He didn't even bother to look at me as he locked the door then used his hip to nudge me out of the way. "Are you kidding me right now?"

Smith checked the lock once more, then pushed past me. I stared daggers into his back as he headed for the pink van I used for deliveries. He slid into the passenger seat and stared at me through the windshield as if willing me to get in.

Ire welled up and I forced myself to draw in a deep breath. He wanted to come to work with me? Fine. I was going to make his life so miserable he would regret every second of it.

A smile slowly unfurled across my lips. Let the games begin.