Chapter 2
Jolee
I can’t. I can’t do this anymore.
He’s an infuriating hunk of a man who needs to go. I pause in my rage cleaning.
Did I just refer to him as a hunk?
I guess I did, if tall, lean yet muscular, dirty blond hair, and mesmerizing blue eyes are the definition of a hunk.
Damn, I can’t be thinking this way.
I scrub the counter harder, the sound of it too loud in the quiet apartment. I’m half-expecting him to appear in the doorway, arms crossed, that unreadable look on his face. I’m worried he’s already figured me out better than I’d like.
He also has a way of not being in the room while still taking up all the space. How is that possible? I really need to stop thinking about him.
I need to work. It’s a distraction, I understand, but I’d be useless right now.
For one, I’m still having nightmares—not that I’d ever admit that—and the thought of stepping anywhere near the warehouse again makes my pulse spike. I’m not sure what would break first, my composure or my grip on reality.
Second, I’m an accident waiting to happen. One boot. One mostly healed arm. A head that still aches when I think too hard. The doctor says I’m lucky. I feel fragile.
I feel… nothing like myself. When was the last time I even felt like me?
Star’s stalker could have hurt me worse if he wanted to. He wasn’t after me. I repeat that like a mantra, hoping it will eventually sink in, adding to my trauma pile. It’s what I do. What I’m good at.
I’m still standing.
Barely.
Fear has lived deep in my bones for years.
It’s a bitch. A ruthless, steal-your-breath kind of bitch. One I know intimately.
And today?
Today makes it worse.
Today is the day I was supposed to become Mrs. White.
I don’t say the name out loud. I never do.
Even in my own head, it feels wrong. It was never that way.
There were many days when I couldn’t wait to be his wife.
Be his everything. I had wanted a future, and now I just want to survive. It’s a poor definition of me moving on.
It’s also the day the letter arrives.
Same envelope. Same handwriting. Same venom carefully folded into crisp white paper. His mother never misses a year. As if forgetting might somehow let me off the hook, as if I might somehow forget.
My chest tightens at the thought of the mailbox. Of her words. Of being blamed—again—for a death I didn’t cause but can never escape.
That’s why everything feels sharper today. Louder. It’s why my nerves feel exposed, humming just under my skin. I tell myself it will pass, like it always does, but my body doesn’t believe me this time.
This year feels different. Why does Clay feel like the reason?
I probably should have gone to therapy. Years of it. Instead, I ran. Changed cities. Changed my life. Burying myself at work until I didn’t have time to feel.
It worked. Mostly.
I have no intention of dating. Or marrying. That version of me died a long time ago, despite the calendar insisting it’s been eight years.
My reckless thoughts drift back to the man in my apartment.
Clay.
Even his name feels too solid. Too real.
I blame the lack of sleep. The concussion. Anything other than the truth. I’m too aware of him. Of his footsteps. Of the way he watches me, thinking I don’t notice. Of how my body reacts when he’s near, heat pooling low and unwelcome.
I’ve never had anyone in my space like this. Never had someone who didn’t leave when I told them to. No one this close. Andy and I were never like this. This unwanted pull and friction.
I’ve told him to go, over and over. But he doesn’t.
Persistent.
Or stubborn.
Possibly both.
It’s unsettling. And worse… It’s getting to me. He’s reaching parts of me that I’m not ready for. I don’t think I’ll ever be ready.
It’s why my apartment is spotless. You could eat off every surface. Cleaning keeps my hands busy, keeps my mind from wandering to the way his voice drops when he’s tired, or how he positions himself between me and the door without thinking.
He says he takes his job seriously.
Fine. Good. He can stop now.
I’m not going to die. The thought still makes my stomach flip and my pulse race. Trauma doesn’t care about logic.
I can’t go back to work yet. I’d fall behind. My arm still gives out, and my foot aches when I’m up too long. Physical therapy means leaving the apartment—means exposure—and I’m not ready. I know it’s slowing my healing by not going, but I’m delaying what’s to come. Will I ever be ready?
When I moved here, I needed a job. I didn’t expect Star. Or the way she gave me something to focus on when my past threatened to swallow me whole. Whispering Waters was supposed to be my reset. My escape.
Away from the pain.
Away from the hurt.
Away from my past.
Instead of scrubbing the counter raw, my gaze drifts to the unopened box tucked away in my bedroom. Star’s idea of workplace perks, and I’ve never touched any of them. Strangely enough, I’ve never thrown it away either.
Sex—pleasure of any means—is a door I closed on purpose.
So why does Clay’s presence make it creak open? Why am I having second and third thoughts on the idea?
I hate the attraction. Hate that my body reacts when my heart is closed. I’ve overheard him on the phone late at night. Low voice. Sweet words. He has someone.
Someone important to him and his life. He needs to go home because I won’t be held responsible for another relationship being destroyed.
He doesn’t need me. I can’t be that someone, and I don’t want to be. I’ll call Knight’s office to request a reassignment. Today.
The kitchen is immaculate. There’s nothing left to clean.
Which means there’s nothing left to avoid.
Now what?
The mailbox waits outside. It’s time to get this over with, then move on for the next three hundred and sixty-four days until the next reminder.
Snow falls again, thick and relentless.
I pull on my coat, hat, gloves, and one boot. My heart pounds harder with every layer. By the time I’m ready, I’m overheated, my breath shallow.
I can do this. I can show Clay that I’m fine.
I grab the shovel and step outside, already bracing for the envelope I know will be there.