Chapter 15 #3
“I actually do.” Though, in truth, it was at least fifty percent about keeping her mind off the prospect of them being ambushed. He slid closer so she would barely even have to whisper. He could just watch her lips while she more-or-less mouthed the words.
“Duck-egg walls with white trim,” she began, leaning forward, so close he had to flick his gaze between her eyes and her mouth.
“Blues and greens and whites because they made me feel at peace and grounded. Photos of beaches and forests. Candles and low lights and happiness. Textures you could snuggle into—cashmere throws, bouclé cushions, linen drapes, a deep-pile rug. I would walk in the door and my whole body would relax. I could leave the world outside and breathe.” Fine lines appeared in her forehead.
“I used to love being at home by myself, in my little cocoon, but now… Mom used to tease me that I had set up my life in a controlled environment, as if I was some precious silk.”
“You lost that control,” he said gently. “And your whole career is based around the comforts of home—protecting them, preserving them.”
She stared at him, pursing her lips. “That’s so true.
I put everything on eBay—the throws, the rugs, the pictures, even my clothes.
I remember staring at a cushion, after the robbery.
” She hugged the old cushion to her chest. “I made it years ago from vintage Florence Broadhurst curtain fabric I picked up at a yard sale, and I loved it. But I was looking at it, and I got this visceral reaction. It started at cold terror and shot through to rage, hot like you wouldn’t believe.
” She touched her cheek as if she could still feel the heat.
“And I grabbed my scissors and tore it apart. I cut myself and had to get stitches.” She held out a palm, on which he could just make out a fine white line.
“And now, for the rest of my life, I’ll think of the robbery every damn time I look at my hand.
I got rid of all the temporary reminders and, in the process, I gave myself a permanent one.
I can’t even buy myself a cushion because I know that when something bad happens, I’m going to end up hating it. ”
“So it’s the same as with dating?”
She tilted her head. “Huh?”
“You can’t fall in love because you’re looking ahead to when you fall out of love. You can’t buy a cushion because you fear something bad will happen that will make you hate it. You can’t find a new home because you’re worried something will destroy its sanctity.”
“Well, shit,” she said, with a soundless laugh. “And here’s me thinking I just hadn’t found a place with the right ambience.”
“You don’t trust the future.”
She contemplated that for a while. “I guess not.”
“But you’re an optimist.”
“Why on earth would you think that, after everything you just cataloged?”
“Austen. All those happy ever afters.”
She grunted. “That was pretty much the only thing I couldn’t throw away—my Jane Austen collection.
My gran gave me the whole set when I was thirteen.
After I cut myself with the scissors, I looked at my bookshelf, pissed at myself, and there was my Pride and Prejudice.
I grabbed it before I went to the doctor, without even thinking about it, and started reading it while I waited to get stitched up.
I stayed up all night and finished it. I couldn’t sleep, anyway, at that point.
It honestly saved me. That copy now has bloodstains all over the early chapters.
” She wriggled a little, adjusting her coat so it covered more of her legs.
“So yeah, I was an optimist. But now I’m in this holding pattern, and I don’t know how to get out of it. ”
“I’m not a pilot, but I imagine that when you’re in a holding pattern, your only choice is to land, eventually, somewhere.”
“Or keep circling until you run out of fuel and plunge to your death.”
“Well, yes, that’s a choice too.”
“I don’t know. Is failing to make a choice, a choice? If there’s no moment of decision?”
“Are you waiting for permission to land?”
“What do you mean? From who?”
He shrugged.
“You mean from me. You’re saying I’ve put myself into this holding pattern, and I’m the only one who can choose to get myself out.”
“I didn’t say a word,” He reached for her palm, gently closed her cold fingers, and then wrapped his hand around hers. “I get it. It’s hard to land when you can’t trust the ground will be there to catch you.”
“Right? You have to trust so many things—the air traffic controller, the pilots of the other planes, the landing gear, the lights on the runway, the ground crew, your own piloting skills.” She kept her tone light, but in a joking-not-joking way.
“Plus, you need to trust that every single person on the flight has been screened, and no one has brought on nail scissors and a death wish. And that’s before you get into the terminal, and then you jump in your car and it’s a whole lot more strangers who could kill you at any second with a single turn of the steering wheel. ”
“It’s a lot. Every single day.”
She rolled her eyes. “I can see what you’re trying to do, Tom. Like my therapist—trying to make me see the light without actually turning on the switch.”
“Far be it from me to tell you how to land your plane. I don’t even have a flight path.”
“You could land anywhere you want.”
“There’s nowhere but here I can picture myself. And hey, so could you—land anywhere, I mean.”
“In theory.”
“Life is great in theory, isn’t it?”
“So great.”
A twig snapped, below them. Amelia’s eyes widened.
Shit, he should have been more careful. He’d got lost in her eyes.
They were talking quietly, but the sound could still carry.
Tom shuffled to the open flap and peered down.
He smiled, relieved. A finger to his lips, he beckoned her over.
A stag was picking at a clump of leaves on a young holly, its shape just visible through the canopy.
“What a beauty,” Amelia whispered. “I can’t believe you shoot them.”
“Not me personally, not anymore. I’m a live-and-let-live guy.”
A dog barked, close now. The deer froze, jerking its head up.
“Run, Bambi, run,” Tom whispered.
After half a minute, it went back to nosing through the bush. Tom looked around for something to throw, then remembered the paperweight in his coat pocket. He drew it out and took aim.
“What are you doing?”
“If I can scare the deer into running, hopefully the dog will hear, and follow. The brothers won’t be able to get it off the scent. Don’t worry, Snow White, I’m not going to hit it.”
“Snow White now?”
“She loved animals, didn’t she?”
He threw the paperweight at the trunk of an oak, right next to the deer.
It bounced off and disappeared into a clump of grass.
The stag bolted, swishing through the undergrowth.
Seconds later, one of the dogs erupted from nowhere, bounding after the deer, barking.
Tom raised his eyebrows. For once today, a plan of his had actually worked.
“What became of Snow White’s prince?” he whispered.
“Nothing much. He came out unscathed.”
“Good to hear.”
“Psychopath, though.”
“Huh?”
“He forced the evil queen to dance in red-hot iron slippers until she dropped dead.”
“Blimey.”
“Are you saying you’re my prince now?” Amelia’s mouth was so close that her lips touched his earlobe.
A whistle cut through the air. Tom grabbed for Amelia’s hand, catching her wrist instead—as if she needed the warning to be quiet.
Her pulse tapped hard against his fingers.
Hell, his heart rate was skidding along, and he hadn’t been through what she’d been through.
She repositioned her hand so she could hold his properly, tightly.
Another whistle, followed by rustling and low, murmuring voices. The Pritchard brothers were directly underneath.