Chapter Two #3
The sound of the breeze sifting through the tops of the trees above was unusually acute, as if she were part of the treetops themselves.
Her vision was suddenly sharper, the colors more defined or even exaggerated, as if each color carried its own sound, the green and blue louder than the rest. Even the scent of the pine straw beneath her feet seemed headier, more aromatic than she remembered it.
It was as if all her senses had suddenly come alive in this in-between place.
A strikingly colored blue jay stared down at her from a branch above her head. He squawked at her, ruffling his feathers, his beady black eyes focused intently on her.
“Hey. Can you… see me?” she asked. The bird ruffled its feathers, then bolted off the branch in a flutter of wings, disappearing into the nearby trees. “I will take that as a yes.”
How odd this all was. How terribly odd. She felt strangely helpless.
That was not a feeling she liked or was used to.
She’d spent most of the last decade of her life pushing herself to survive and, more importantly, to succeed.
On most people’s terms, she supposed, she had succeeded, building a great company, a crew of friends/employees whose lives were better for that work. Friends who would do anything for her.
By most standards, she was a success.
Just not by hers.
“Yer bein’ a wee bit hard on yourself, aren’t ye?”
She swung around to find Connor sitting beneath the tree behind her, one wrist slung over his bent knee. Looking…well…looking for all the world like he should be biting into a forbidden apple. With a snake slithering down from above.
“Apparently,” she said. “I can’t escape you, then.”
“Not really. No.”
“Did…did you just actually hear what I was thinking?”
“Might’ve,” he allowed, but it was clear he had.
“Well, stop that.”
He stared off at the horizon, where the smog from the city had settled like a brownish mantle. “I’m not all that interested, truth be told.”
“Oh. Good.”
“Fine,” he said but nonetheless started following her across the parking lot toward the field beyond as she walked away from him.
Finally, she swung around on him again. “Don’t follow me.”
“Afraid I must,” he replied. “Guardian thing.”
She scowled at him. “Keep back, then.”
With a slight bow, he answered, “As you wish.”
“Thank you,” she muttered, adding, “ Farm Boy ” under her breath as she stalked across the grassy field to the sound of his amusement.
“Farm Boy?” he repeated, following some ten feet behind her. “I assure you, I was never a farm—”
She whirled back and he skidded to a stop a few feet behind her. “That was pure sarcasm and a film reference. But rest assured, you’re no Westley.”
“Westley…?” he asked with an all–too–Westley-ish grin.
“ Princess Bride ?” she said, as if he should know. “Buttercup’s one true love? He was brave. Strong. Loyal,” she pointed out. “And helpful. Nothing like you apparently.”
“Ye’ve made that determination already, have ye?”
“Obviously. You’d clearly rather be anywhere than here with me. In my darkest hour,” she added dramatically. “I’m not even sure why you’re hanging around.”
“Some of us honor our commitments,” he said half under his breath.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
His gaze passed over her like a wave of heat, and he glanced at his wrist again. “We should be gettin’ back.”
“Go on, then,” she said. “Unless I’m about to wake up. Is that why you keep looking at that glowing thing on your wrist?”
“That’s not for me to say.”
He was the most frustrating man. Angel. Whatever. “I’d like to speak to your supervisor.”
His laugh made his face change entirely. It made him almost…human. “My supervisor, eh?”
“Yes, please.”
“Okay. Well, let me just do a wee check to see if she’s available. Nae, she’s not. Ye’ll just have to make do with me, I’m afraid.”
No doubt he’d used that disarming grin of his to charm the myriad of women (angelic or otherwise) that men like him always had flitting around him. But it wouldn’t work on her. “Your supervisor is female?”
“Ye might call her a supervisor. But she’s not at my beck and call, ye see.”
She lifted a pained look up at him through her lashes.
“What? Don’t believe me?”
“You don’t seem the type to take orders from any woman.”
“And ye say so, why?”
“You may be an angel, but you’re still a man.”
Threading his fingers together, he propped his hands atop his head, scanning the surrounding field. “Ye never had a problem with that before,” he muttered, mostly to himself.
“Before…what? Have we met somewhere before? Pray tell. What have I done to offend you?”
For a long beat, he stared at her. She could almost see an argument going on in his head about how much to say.
“Not you, exactly,” he admitted. “But you. Exactly. And offend is a mild word.”
He was making her head hurt. “Well, riddle me this, Farm Boy. How could I not know you and know you at the same time? Are you being intentionally obtuse? Because I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
He seemed to have expected as much. “I canna blame ye for that.” A muscle in his jaw worked. “I’m goin’ back. Comin’?”
He didn’t wait for her to answer, simply stalked back toward the hospital doors.
As much as he confounded her, as much as she was starting to truly despise him, she couldn’t help but be affected by the figure he cut walking through the long grass: his linen shirt clinging to his strong arms and back.
The way her breath caught watching the breeze ruffled his too long dark hair.
Stop it!
What in the world was happening to her?
For a long moment, Emma wondered what would happen if she tried to navigate this whole situation by herself.
It would not go well, she suspected. She might even die by default.
He was her only tether to possibility. But he was as much a mystery to her as this place was, as what had happened on that road last night.
However, alone, she would be lost. Adrift in the unknown.
Yet to do nothing…to stay locked in the hospital beside her helpless body and leave all the questions unanswered about her accident, about Aubrey’s future, about…
well, everything seemed unthinkable. It just wasn’t in her DNA.
Had someone tried to drive her off the road intentionally? Was it road rage or accidental? Had she simply been distracted? Had she lost control? What was the debris that officer had talked about? She couldn’t remember anything about the accident at all. It was as if her memory had been wiped clean.
Even more urgently, something niggled at her. Something important she knew she’d forgotten. Something she’d needed to do. For the life of her, she couldn’t remember what.
Emma almost laughed at the irony of that phrase.
For the life of her. What if that road had meant the end of that life for her?
What if she never woke up? What if Connor was just biding his time, waiting until she…
until she died to be rid of her? Were all angels as unpleasant as him?
It wasn’t her imagination that he seemed to be keeping something from her.
No, three times he’d said something he refused to explain.
And who was Violet? Why did he seem to dislike her so?
More importantly, what had Emma herself ever done to him?
Obviously, nothing. Except possibly ogle him a bit more than strictly necessary. Because, for heaven sakes, the man was—she had trouble forming the word in her mind— gorgeous . But aside from the fact that he wasn’t even mortal, he was not her type: arrogant, cranky, and full of himself.
So, technically, her type.
Not that any of that mattered at all. But the answers to all those questions felt out of reach.
One thing she knew: If she wanted his help, she would need to change tactics. She would need to get him on her side.
*
“My cat,” Emma announced, appearing at the doorway to her hospital room.
Connor, who’d been standing beside her bed, studying the temporary cast wrapped around her leg, squinted at her now from beneath lowered brows. His intention was to intimidate her, but she showed no sign of being cowed. “Your cat?” he repeated.
“Winston. He’s been alone since…all this. I have to go home. You need to help me get me there.”
“We’ve been over this—”
“Yeah,” she said. “That might fly if I hadn’t already been outside the hospital, a thousand feet away. But here I am. And…there I am. Nothing went haywire. I think you’re just making it up that it’s dangerous for me to be separated from my body.”
“Do ye now?”
“Yes.”
“Are ye always this much trouble, Emma?”
She lifted her chin. “Absolutely.”
Might’ve known. Once a troubled soul, always a troubled soul. Connor slouched down into the chair beside her bed, slinging one knee over the armrest. “And what exactly do ye think you’ll do once you get to your place? Ye canna feed the wee cat. Ye know that, right?”
“But you can.”
“Beg your pardon?”
She knelt beside his chair, folding her hands prayerfully atop his knee in a most disconcerting way. Or, rather, her hands atop his knee had the most disconcerting effect on him. “You can be seen if you want. You said so. You can be physical if the situation calls for—”
He practically snorted. “Not for a cat.”
“For Winston you can. He’s very special. He—”
“I’m allergic.”
Her lips parted with a look of incredulity. “No, you’re not.”
“Aye, I am.”
“You’re not even human,” she pointed out. “That’s impossible.”
Not even—? Blast the woman! He rolled to his feet to pace the perimeter of the small room. “You’re right. I’m not. Allergic.”
She frowned. “Then why not?”
“Just… no ,” he snapped.
She studied him for a full ten seconds with a perplexed expression before a grin appeared on her lips. “No,” she said. “Wait. You’re not afraid of cats, are you?”
He pulled a face, then turned away from her. “I am not.”
“You are .”
He spun to find her colliding into him, but he caught her by the arms to set her away from him. “No, I am not.”
Emma bit her cheek to contain her smile. “Prove it.”
Oh, he was going to have a talk with Roland about this assignment, all right, and sooner rather than later. But before she could accuse him of anything else, he took her by the arm and transported her to the stoop of her front porch.
Off-balance, Emma swayed beside him and blinked hard as if trying to clear the dizziness from her head. She glanced up at her front door, then at the street behind them, then pressed her fingers to her temples. “How…how did you do that?”
“Never mind,” he said. “You’re here. Let’s get on wi’ it.”
Emma stared at the door. “How good are you at picking locks?”
He gave her a condescending look. In the next instant, they were inside, standing in the foyer—staring at the contents of every drawer, shelf, and table strewn all over the floor of her living room.
Every piece of furniture was upended or torn open.
Every cupboard emptied. Every picture frame smashed and shattered on the floor.