2. CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 2
GRANT
It’s almost a perfect evening.
From my front porch, I can watch as the last remnants of sunlight dip below the trees and the first stars make their appearance.
In the woods, it’s quiet except for the crickets chirping and the soft snuffle of my dog, Wilson, napping at my feet.
Living on the outskirts of Sleepy Hollow, I’m far enough from my neighbors to have real privacy. I don’t hear lawn mowers or car doors slamming or music playing in backyards or any of the other suburban sounds I grew up with.
At the tail end of summer, it’s still warm enough to sit outside and enjoy a beer by the solar lights my friend Ian’s wife, Rose, gave me as a birthday present, insisting I needed some kind of ambiance.
I don’t know about ambiance, but I put the little lanterns out on my front porch and I’ve grown to like them. They cast just enough light so I can see at night, but not enough to make me feel like I’m on display.
That’s one of the reasons I built a cabin out here, so I could get away from everything when I need to. Like when the memories get to be too much. Or the guilt. When self-doubt rears its ugly head, making me question if I truly deserve to be happy.
When the buzzing in my head won’t quiet.
But once I get back here, everything settles. I can just take time to be by myself—sitting out on the porch looking at the stars, walking around the property with Wilson, or reading by the fire once it gets too cold to be outside.
Not that I’m a complete hermit. I own a construction company with ten employees. I’m a volunteer firefighter. I have friends—guys I work with at Station 4 and the ambulance corps, locals I’ve met during the three years I’ve lived here, my old SEAL teammates—but they all understand that sometimes I just want to be alone.
Almost as if I summoned him, my phone vibrates with an incoming text from Rhys, a SEAL teammate who left the Navy not long after me. It’s a photo of a bonfire in front of a lake glowing with amber and crimson—one of many stunning pictures he’s sent, since he’s living up in the Adirondacks, working for an outdoor adventuring company.
A moment later, his accompanying message appears.
Stopped with a group at Blue Mountain Lake for the night. We spent the day kayaking. You’d love it. When are you coming to visit?
I stare at the photo for a few seconds as the familiar bittersweet feeling sweeps over me. It’s not that I regret leaving the Navy, exactly—I had good reasons, and I’m happy with my life here—but I still miss my team.
Wilson makes a little wuffling sound and his legs twitch in his sleep, which never fails to make me smile. The poignant moment interrupted, I send Rhys back a reply.
Looks incredible. And I will. Kind of busy with work and the station right now, but soon. I promise.
We text back and forth for a while longer—talking about our jobs and his upcoming trip to Colorado and the most recent renovations to my cabin—and when I look up from my phone, I’m startled to notice the sun’s gone down completely.
Shit. Double checking the time, I frown when I see it’s past seven-thirty.
Well past when Scarlett was supposed to be here.
Worry niggles at me. She texted me she was leaving at six, and I know it only takes her five minutes to get from the Cunninghams’ to her house. Even taking the time to shower and pick up the pizza on her way here, Scarlett should have arrived already.
It’s probably nothing, but the worry still works itself deeper. Scarlett would have told me if she was running late. She’s too thoughtful and conscientious not to.
And there’s this gut feeling.
Ask any of my teammates, and they’d say the same thing. Sometimes your gut just knows. Even when there’s no sign of anything being wrong.
Maybe she broke down on her way here. But then why wouldn’t she call ?
I double check my texts, but there’s nothing new.
Shit. Now my gut isn’t just telling me something is wrong, it’s yelling.
Forget texting, I’m calling her.
When she doesn’t answer after the third ring, I jump to my feet, nervous energy pulsing through me.
Something is wrong.
Then the call connects, and I breathe a tiny sigh of relief.
Until I hear her voice.
It’s small. Wobbly. “Grant?”
The worry resurges, ten times worse than before. She sounds upset. Scared.
Keeping my tone carefully calm, I ask, “Scarlett. Are you okay? What’s wrong?”
There’s silence, and then a shuddering gasp. “The house…” Another shaky breath. “Someone… they…”
Shit. I can hear her breathing getting faster, and I know Scarlett gets panic attacks sometimes. She told me about it one night, red-faced and staring at her lap, like it was something to be ashamed of. Which it isn’t. At all.
“Hey.” Soothing now, I say, “Scarlett. Can you tell me what happened?”
Another long silence, punctuated by soft little gasps. Then she replies quietly, “A man… broke into the house… I had to… protect Saul. But… he’s…” A sob bursts out. “He’s... And… I’m… I don’ t know…”
I’m back inside the house, grabbing my keys. “Are the police there? Paramedics?”
She whispers, “Yes…”
“I’m on my way. Okay, Scarlett? I’m leaving right now.”
Another sob, and she sounds so scared and vulnerable it makes my chest ache. “Okay, Grant.”
Adrenaline surging through me, I quickly put Wilson inside and run for my car. While the rational part of my brain says Scarlett’s safe, not terribly hurt—not if she answered her phone and talked to me—but the primal, protective part doesn’t quite believe it.
That part won’t believe she’s okay until I see her.
Worry urges me to go faster; well past the speed limit as I hurry towards the Cunningham estate. I know exactly where it is—in a town like Sleepy Hollow, it’s impossible not to know where the wealthiest families live. Which makes what Scarlett said make a terrible sort of sense.
She said something about a man breaking in. About protecting Saul. Why else would someone break into a place like that if they weren’t trying to—
Shit. There are other reasons. Ones I don’t want to think about right now.
Terrible scenarios are running through my head. Sweet, caring Scarlett, surprised by a burglar, trying to protect her patient, putting herself in danger in the process. Scarlett terrified, on the verge of a panic attack. Being hurt. Touched. Traumatized.
My jaw clenches, teeth grinding painfully .
If someone hurt Scarlett…
Why is it taking so long to get there? This should have been a ten-minute trip, and it feels like I’ve been driving at least twice that long.
Finally— finally —I see the glow of flashing lights up ahead. Several seconds later, an ambulance siren shatters the relative silence of the night, its shrill alarm quickly fading as it heads north towards the hospital.
My lungs seize. Scarlett can’t be in it. Can’t be that badly hurt. Not when I just talked to her. There’s no way any of the paramedics would have let her answer her phone if she was seriously injured.
Still. I need to see her. Make sure she’s okay.
It’s what I’d do for any of my friends.
Once I get close to the house, I can see the extent of the chaos. There are at least four police cars blocking the street, their lights still flashing. Two fire trucks are idling on either side of the driveway, but it looks like the firefighters are packing it in. Police officers are scattered all around the scene; some talking in small groups, others striding around the Cunningham property. And on the outskirts, there are clusters of curious neighbors watching as the activity unfolds.
I park three houses down and set off at a jog, only slowing when one of the officers tries to stop me. But it’s Kane Montague, who I know well from my years at the station, and as soon as he recognizes me, he says, “Grant. What are you doing here? The guys are just wrapping things up. ”
As much as I want to blow past him, I stop long enough to explain, “A friend of mine works here. Scarlett Kirkland. I want to make sure she’s okay.”
He nods. “She’s here. I think she’s with Mike, just going over her statement again.”
“Is she alright? Hurt?”
His mouth presses into an unhappy line. “She’s okay. Mostly. But you guys are friends?”
Frustration claws at me. If only I’d been on duty tonight, I’d already have seen Scarlett. I’d be one of the ones checking on her.
“Yes.” It’s gritted through a tight jaw. “We’re friends.”
Just friends , I’ve silently insisted to myself whenever I have a fleeting thought of taking things further. I remind myself of all the reasons Scarlett and I are better off as friends. We have a comfortable relationship just as things are. I’m too busy to date. I have too much baggage. She’s never shown any sort of interest in anything beyond friendship.
When I met Scarlett, dating was the last thing on my mind. She’d just moved to Sleepy Hollow, and my friend Cole’s wife, Maya, asked if I’d take a look at Scarlett’s rental house to make sure everything looked like it was in order.
We were all at the Hop-less Horseman when Maya approached me. “Cole could do it,” Maya explained, “but you’re the expert. And Scarlett’s renting an older house, so I want to make sure it’s safe for her. Would you mind? Please?”
Of course I said yes. No matter how busy I am with work, I always make time to help my friends. Or friends of friends, as it was.
I don’t know what I was expecting when I met Scarlett, but it wasn’t anything close to reality. I’d seen pictures of her from Maya’s wedding, so I knew Scarlett was beautiful—long, blonde hair, heart-shaped face with sparkling blue eyes, a perfect hourglass figure—but in person, she was stunning.
That wasn’t why I liked her, though. I liked her sweet smile and intelligent questions and her dry little jokes. I liked how Scarlett didn’t mind the quiet, or feel like she had to always fill the silences with conversation. I felt comfortable with her.
Still, I had no plans of asking her out. I thought I might stop back in a few weeks, just to check on her. Make sure her furnace was working properly, check the mouse traps I set out in the attic, clear the snow off the roof if it was getting too heavy. Maybe I’d bring over a little toolkit since she said she didn’t have one.
But then Scarlett texted a few days later, asking if she could bring over dinner as a way of saying thanks, and I didn’t hesitate to say yes.
She showed up with a stack of covered dishes and trays—meatballs and baked ziti and garlic bread and salad—and said, “I know you’re really busy. So I made enough so you could have leftovers. I really appreciate you taking the time to help me.”
Like I was going to just take the food without sharing it with her? Hardly. So I insisted she come inside, and we had dinner together.
From there, our friendship was inevitable.
Now we see each other once a week, either at my place or hers. She makes dinner or we order takeout and we watch TV and talk about everything. Whenever I go to her house, I do a quick check to make sure everything’s in working order. When I have a run of long workdays, Scarlett will drop off cookies or muffins on my porch so they’re waiting for me when I get home.
She’s even gotten me addicted to her ridiculous reality shows, though I’ll never admit it.
One thing we’ve never talked about? A relationship. Scarlett’s never given me any hint of wanting more than friendship. She’s never shown any interest in dating anyone, period. And I think I know why.
Sometimes I can see the same shadows in her eyes that I have in my own. The same slump to her shoulders when she thinks no one’s looking. And the panic attacks she admitted to, but never explained.
But I figured we had time to decide if either of us wanted more.
“You should head over there.” Kane claps me on the shoulder. His expression shifts to one of concern. “Last I saw, she was pretty shaken up. Seeing a friendly face might help.”
I lift my chin at him. “Thanks.” Then I jog off again, searching for Scarlett .
It takes me a second before I spot her near one of the police cars. Two officers are talking nearby, but Scarlett’s sitting alone on the curb, hugging herself, her hair hanging in long curtains around her face.
My heart pinches.
Putting on a burst of speed, I rush over to her. As I approach, I call out quietly so as not to startle her. “Scarlett. I got here as soon as I could.”
She raises her head and there’s enough light from the headlights to see the reddish bruise blossoming across her cheek.
Shit. She’s hurt.
Someone hit her.
I drop to my knees beside her, taking one chilled hand in mine. She looks at me, her eyes huge and pupils dilated, and whispers, “You came.”
“Of course I did.” Scarlett’s shaking all over, her breath coming in quick gasps. When I rest my fingers on her wrist, I can feel her pulse hammering much too fast. She’s trying to control it—using the same breathing techniques I’ve used myself—but they’re not working and I can tell she’s on the verge of a panic attack.
As angry and worried as I am, as much as I want to know what happened here, the most important thing is helping her calm down.
“Grant,” she starts, but her chin starts to wobble. “Saul… the man… I tried…”
“Hey, it’s okay.” I rest my other hand on her knee, rubbing gently. Pitching my voice so it’s low and soothing, I croon, “It’s alright. Just breathe. Okay? Don’t worry about telling me anything yet. Just concentrate on breathing.”
She stares at me, tears brimming in her eyes. Her fingers convulse around mine. “Grant…” Her voice hitches. “I can’t…”
“Shhh, it’s okay.” I take her hand and place it on my chest, flattening my hand over hers. “Just take deep breaths. Match your breathing to mine. That’s all I want you to do right now.”
Watching Scarlett struggle to rein in her panic is agonizing. And just holding her hand doesn’t feel like enough. I’m struck by an instinctive need to pull her into my arms and hold her until she stops shaking. To stroke her hair and wipe away the tears slowly leaking down her cheeks.
But that’s not the kind of relationship we have—Scarlett’s given me quick hugs before, but they’ve been the friendly, platonic kind—and now is definitely not the time to push it.
So I tell her about my day instead. While Scarlett works to control her breathing, her gaze glued to mine, I tell her about my latest job; building a new shed for one of the more eccentric local women, Mrs. Plimpton.
“I thought she just wanted a regular shed,” I recall with a little smile, “but when I got to her house, she had full blueprints drawn up. She wants a custom bar so she can hold book club meetings in there. And a projection screen so she can have movie nights. It’s going to be the nicest shed in town when I’m done.”
Scarlett’s lips lift just the smallest bit at that, and she whispers, “I want to see pictures.”
“Absolutely.” My thumb rubs across the back of her hand. “I’ll take lots of them. And I’m sure Mrs. Plimpton won’t mind if you come to see it when it’s done.”
For the next few minutes I keep rambling on, coming up with anything I can to distract her. I tell her about Wilson’s new favorite game, which is stealing my socks from the laundry basket and hiding them all over the cabin.
I talk about the pond on my property and how I’m thinking about turning it into a skating rink this winter. “I thought it could be fun. Ben and Thea could bring Laila to skate. Ian and Cash mentioned something about hockey.” Noticing Scarlett’s breathing is slowing, I ask her gently, “Can you skate?”
After a moment, she gives me a jerky nod. “Yes. I took… skating lessons. When I was a kid.”
“So you’ll come over to skate.” I can’t resist brushing a piece of hair off her damp cheek. “You can teach me some tricks.”
“Okay.” She gives me an actual smile this time. “I’d like that.”
I take Scarlett’s pulse again, and this time it’s closer to normal. Some of the color is coming back to her face. Now that it seems like the worst of her panic has passed, I ask, “Do you need to stay here? Or can you go home? Did anyone tell you?”
Uncertainty flickers across her delicate features. “I’m not sure. ”
Looking around, I spot Mike Troy nearby, one of the veteran members of the Sleepy Hollow police force. Raising my voice, I call over to him, “Mike. Do you still need Scarlett here?”
He turns towards me, his gaze landing on Scarlett before meeting mine. Compassion softens his expression. “She can go home. If we have more questions, we’ll call.” Walking closer, he adds, “Scarlett. You did a great job in there. I just wanted to say that.”
She shudders before replying quietly, “Thanks.”
I give Mike a quick chin lift. “Thanks.” Then I refocus on Scarlett. “What do you want to do? Go home? Do you want me to call Maya? Bring you over to Blade and Arrow to stay?”
“No.” It’s quick. Adamant. “I don’t want to freak Maya out. Cole just got home; she’s probably spending time with him, I’m sure Clara’s asleep… And I need to get home. Jasper is probably wondering where I am—” Her face crumples. “What if I didn’t… he’d be waiting… looking at the door…”
Of course. Scarlett’s dog. Of course she wants to check on him. “I can go over to let Jasper out,” I offer. “Or I can bring him to my place. You know he and Wilson get along.”
Tears are spilling down her cheeks again, each one like a knife slice to my heart. “I just want to go home.” A pause, and then in a tiny voice, “Would you come over…”
Oh.
This surge of protectiveness is so much more intense than anything I’ve felt before.
“Yes.” I squeeze her hand softly as I hold her gaze. “I will absolutely come over. For as long as you want.”