Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Despite the cabin being in the middle of nowhere, with the generator running and the fire blazing, the interior was warm and welcoming.
The appliances weren’t modern, nor were they archaic.
Michelle found cans of vegetables, potatoes, and broth.
In no time, she had a vegetable stew simmering, a fresh pot of coffee brewing, and she even found a pantry with vacuum-sealed perishables.
She put a few slices of homemade bread in the oven, filling the cabin with the delicious aroma.
If it wasn’t obvious by Michelle’s curvy physique, next to creating heart-pounding stories, cooking and eating were some of her favorite activities.
When Fletch emerged from the bedroom, her pulse quickened as she scanned from his head to his toes.
Damp dark hair fell to his shoulders. His stubble was still present beneath his cheeks still pink from the earlier cold.
He must be closer in size to the cabin’s owner.
Fletch donned a gray t-shirt, his long legs were covered with light-gray sweatpants, and his feet covered by wool socks.
“Something smells amazing.”
“Not eating for a while makes everything smell delicious.”
Fletch made his way to the coffee pot and poured a cup.
When he turned, he did the same scan Michelle had just done.
Self-consciously, she imagined her wavy hair piled on her head and small unruly curls dangling near her cheeks, her blue eyes faded into no-man’s-land without makeup, and her curves accentuated by the tight activewear pants.
And yet judging by his expression, Fletch wasn’t seeing what was in her mind’s eye.
His cheeks rose and his lips curled. “I’m a selfish bastard.”
“Why is that?”
“I asked you to forget me, but I don’t want that to happen. I know I won’t be able to forget you.”
His words were like magnets, dragging her closer.
When she was only a few inches away, Michelle looked up. “Where did you get your tattoo, the one on your back?”
Fletch stiffened as if she’d asked for his deepest, darkest secret. “Something I got one drunken night in the service.”
“Service? Army? Navy? Marines?”
“Service.” He took a step away.
Michelle reached for his hand. “My dad has the same tattoo.” She swallowed. “Had. He told me the same story only he said while in the academy.”
With his jaw clenched, Fletch nodded.
Michelle’s brow furrowed. “Don’t you think that’s odd that you and my father would have the same tattoo?”
“How many unique tattoos are there? I mean, you walk into a shop and point. ‘I want that.’” He lifted the lid from the pot of soup. “Damn, this is better than straight from the can.”
“It’s straight from a few cans and some added spices I found.”
After Fletch took a spoonful of the broth, Michelle asked, “Are you really going to get me home and disappear without any information about what’s happening? Will I be safe?” She wondered if these people would follow her back to her home.
“You weren’t supposed to be in Iron Falls. My assignment, self-imposed as it may be, is to get you safely home. I suggest we work on some alibis. If we can come up with a story that includes you not visiting Denny this weekend, you can act as if none of this happened.”
“Self-imposed?”
“You ask too many questions,” Fletch said as he began opening cupboards and removing bowls. Next, he opened the oven and retrieved the warm bread. “Shall we eat?”
“Your assignment wasn’t to save me?”
He placed the bowls on the small table.
“Not officially,” she said for clarification.
His dark stare lingered on her as they sat. Without a word, he reached for his spoon and stirred the vegetable soup. Steam rippled from the warm broth.
“Are you Secret Service or something?” she asked. “I mean you said you don’t exist.”
Fletch’s lips quirked. “Secret Service agents exist. They’re real people with real names and identifications who work to protect entitled people.”
Entitled.
Interesting.
“Okay, then what? A spy?”
He looked up through his exceptionally long eyelashes. “You’ve forgotten witness protection.”
Her eyes grew wide. “Oh, that would make sense.” She scrunched her nose. “Except why would anyone in witness protection risk their life and new identity to save me? I’m nobody.”
After a spoonful of his soup, Fletch laid down the utensil and shook his head. “You’re not nobody.”
“I am. I’ve written a few books. If I would have died last night, no one would go without reading. There’s always someone else, someone newer, someone better. I don’t have siblings or even parents.” That reality threatened her facade. “No one would care if Sheriff Perkins ended me too.”
The legs of his chair screeched across the flooring as Fletch stood.
“You, Shelly Holdcraft, are not nobody. Your father died last night but never think it happened without him caring about you. You were all he ever spoke about. And maybe there are other people who can write a book, but it’s not your book—not D.
Valentine’s addicting novels.” He shook his head.
“The Wishing Well had me confused until the very end. That takes talent.”
Michelle couldn’t believe he’d read her work or knew so much about her father. “You read The Wishing Well?” She shook her head. “And you’re saying you and Dad were friends?”
“I’ve read it, but the answer to your second question is no.”
“You spoke with him…about me?” Something occurred to her. “How do you know that I’m D. Valentine? That isn’t public knowledge.” After what happened with her mother, Michelle chose to keep the two parts of her life separate. That was why she had a pseudonym—a pen name.
Fletch exhaled and walked toward her chair.
With each of his steps, she took in his predatory movement.
His actions were fluid. Each step calculated.
She sucked in a breath. There was something dangerous and enticing about Fletch that Michelle couldn’t pinpoint.
It was as if he were another flame capable of destruction, yet she was unable to look away—she was drawn in by his heat.
“Shelly, in a different world and a different time, I’d tell you everything you want to know. Maybe that day will come. Maybe it won’t.” He offered his hand.
Michelle looked at the size of his palm as she laid her hand in its center and stood.
“I can’t tell you why,” Fletch said, “but I’ve been watching you and Denny for years. As for Tracy, what I know is from stories.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Have you ever wanted someone?” he asked.
Had she?
This exact moment would be a prime example.
“Wanted them, knowing you’d never have them?” he questioned.
Michelle looked down and back to his gaze. “I’m not exactly a waif of a model. I think almost anyone I want I won’t have.”
Fletch reached for her hair, tugging the ponytail holder from her messy bun. Long auburn locks cascaded over her shoulders. After teasing rogue strands away from her face, his hands came to her waist, and he pulled her closer. “You’re beautiful.”
She felt the warmth as pink infiltrated her cheeks.
Fletch lifted her chin. “And in the fishing hut when you started talking about Thomas Becon, I realized that all I had imagined about you was real. You can’t concoct what it’s like to watch someone, watch over them, and never talk to them.
” He tilted his forehead to hers. “To never touch them. To not physically know they’re real. ”
“I’m real, but you said you’re not.”
“I want to be…for you.”
A lump formed in her throat as she nodded, ready to feel the burn of his fire.