Chapter 9 #2
He’d bring Lydia back tomorrow to collect it. After Thanksgiving dinner, maybe. Make it a family outing. He and Lydia, in the truck, the kids bundled in the back seat, all of them warm and full of turkey and pie.
The image was so vivid, so real, that for a moment Ethan let himself believe it could happen. Let himself imagine a future where this wasn’t temporary. Where Lydia stayed, and the kids stayed, and his empty house became the home he and Sarah had always planned.
Then he shook his head, disgusted with himself.
What was he thinking? That he could slot Lydia in Sarah’s place and just pick up where he left off?
How would that be fair? If Lydia was a serious option, shouldn’t they have new plans of their own?
Shouldn’t he be considering her hopes and dreams, not Sarah’s?
She’s happy where she is now, Michael’s voice echoed in his memory. She wants you to know it’s okay.
Ethan wasn’t sure he believed in angels or divine permission or any of it. But he wanted to. By God, he wanted to.
The drive back to his house was slower than the drive out, ice already forming on the roads as the temperature plummeted. By the time Ethan pulled into the driveway, full dark had fallen, and the windows of his house glowed warm and golden against the November night.
Home. It looked like home. Despite his internal back and forth, he was truly excited to spend Thanksgiving with Lydia and the kids.
He climbed out of the truck, grocery bag of extra items he’d picked up at the hardware store in hand, and headed for the door.
“The car’s running,” he called out as he stepped inside, already smiling. “I’ll take you in tomorrow to collect it after?—”
He stopped.
Lydia was standing in the middle of the kitchen, shaking so hard her teeth were chattering. Her face was bone-white, her eyes huge and dark, and the phone, his old landline that he’d kept out of habit more than necessity, was lying on the floor by her feet, the receiver off the hook.
“Lydia?” Ethan crossed the kitchen in two strides, his heart slamming against his ribs. “What happened? What’s wrong?”
She couldn’t seem to speak. Just stood there shaking, her arms wrapped around herself, tears streaming down her face in silent tracks.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay.” Ethan didn’t think, just acted, sweeping her into his arms, pulling her against his chest, one hand cupping her face while his thumbs brushed away the tears. “You’re safe. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
“He—” Lydia stopped, drawing a deep breath. “He called. He … Tom … he knows where I am. He said—” She dissolved into shaking again, and Ethan held her tighter.
“Breathe,” he murmured, his lips against her hair. “Just breathe. I’m here. You’re safe.”
He should have been thinking tactically.
Should have been picking up the phone, checking the caller ID, calling the sheriff.
But all he could think about was how small she felt in his arms, how fragile, how terrified.
And the rage that burned in his chest at the thought of Tom Redding putting that fear in her eyes.
“What did he say?” Ethan forced himself to ask, even though part of him didn’t want to know.
Lydia’s fingers clutched at his shirt. “He said … ‘you think he can keep you safe, Lydie?’” The way she said it, in a breathy whisper, made Ethan’s blood run cold.
That was Tom’s voice. His words. And hearing them in Lydia’s terrified echo made Ethan want to drive to Ohio and make the bastard regret ever laying eyes on her.
But he wasn’t in Ohio, was he? Tom was somewhere close by if he had tracked down Ethan’s house. His phone number.
“He can’t get to you here,” Ethan said, and he meant it with every fiber of his being. “I won’t let him. Do you hear me? I won’t let him hurt you or the kids. Ever.”
Lydia tilted her face up, and Ethan’s breath caught. Her eyes were wild, desperate, dark with panic and something else. Something that looked like the same aching want that had been tearing him apart for days.
And then she kissed him.
It wasn’t gentle or tentative or questioning.
It was desperate and fierce and almost violent in its intensity.
Like she was drowning and he was air, like the world was ending and this was the only thing that mattered.
Her hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him down, and her lips were soft and urgent against his.
Every rational thought in Ethan’s head screamed at him to stop.
That this was wrong, that she was vulnerable and apprehensive, and he was taking advantage of her fear.
That he should pull away, put distance between them, be the responsible adult who didn’t accost traumatized women in his kitchen.
That she was scared and seeking comfort, and this wasn’t real, wasn’t what she actually—just a reaction to intimidation, to feeling cornered and helpless.
But his body wasn’t listening to his brain.
His arms tightened around her of their own accord, one hand sliding into her hair, which was as soft as he’d imagined, and he kissed her back like she was the only thing keeping him from flying apart.
Like he’d been waiting his whole life for this moment and nothing—not guilt, not grief, not common sense, not the voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like his commanding officer telling him this was a bad idea, was going to make him let go.
She tasted like hot cocoa and salt from her tears, and when she made a small sound in the back of her throat, Ethan felt it all the way to his bones.
His thumb traced the line of her jaw, tilted her face up so he could deepen the kiss, and for a moment, the world narrowed to just this.
The softness of her lips, the warmth of her body pressed against his, the way her fingers tangled in his hair like she was afraid he’d disappear if she let go.
She kissed like she’d been thinking about it too. Like she’d been wanting this as much as he had, lying awake at night, wondering what it would be like. The thought sent heat through him that had nothing to do with the kitchen’s warmth.
He should stop. He knew he should stop. This was Lydia.
The woman living in his house, dependent on his help, and still reeling from her ex-husband’s attempt to murder her.
This was wrong on so many levels that Ethan couldn’t even count them all.
But Lydia was kissing him like he was salvation and damnation all wrapped into one, and Ethan had spent three years in emotional purgatory, three years of going through the motions of living without actually being alive, and this …
this felt like coming back to life. Like every nerve ending in his body had been dormant and was suddenly, violently awakening.
His other hand found the small of her back, pulling her closer, and Lydia melted against him with a sound that made his heart stutter.
She fit perfectly in his arms, like she’d been made to be there, and for one wild moment, Ethan let himself believe that this could be real.
That this could be his life. Coming home to Lydia in his kitchen, kissing her like the world had stopped spinning, having the right to touch her and hold her and?—
Reality crashed back in like cold water.
When they finally pulled apart, both breathing hard, Ethan tried to remember how to think.
The phone lay silent on the floor. The house was quiet except for their ragged breathing. And somewhere in the back of his mind, Ethan registered that they’d just crossed a line there was no coming back from.
“I’m sorry,” Lydia whispered, but she didn’t pull away. “I shouldn’t have … you were just … I needed?—”