Chapter 5
She’s watching me.
Even with his eyes closed, Ben knew that Sara was watching him.
Something in the shift of the air, the faint whisper of sugar and vanilla, the subtle tension of being observed.
His ears swiveled, tracking the soft sound of her footsteps before he could stop them, tracking her movement through her kitchen with an accuracy that should have embarrassed him.
But he didn’t stop playing.
He should have. The whole point of only playing at night, alone, in the dark, was to avoid audiences.
But his fingers kept moving across the strings, and his voice kept pouring out into the quiet night, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he acknowledged what he was doing. Breaking another vow. For her.
Even though he’d left the band behind—no more touring, no more stages, no more crowds screaming his name while he felt nothing but hollow—he’d never stopped playing for himself.
The guitar was an extension of his soul, the one language he trusted.
The language he’d learned as a child, waiting for a mother who left and never returned.
Waiting for a father who channeled his grief into his business, with no time for a child who reminded him of what he’d lost.
He hadn’t meant to play tonight; he’d come home from the tavern, restless and unsatisfied, and the guitar had been sitting there, a familiar comfort.
He’d told himself he was just tuning it, but then the song had spilled out, a familiar ballad about lonely highways and brief encounters and the ache of being surrounded by people and utterly alone.
He could feel her watching him. The weight of her gaze left an almost palpable warmth on his skin despite the winter chill, every nerve ending suddenly, painfully alive.
The guitar had been his first love, long before the fame and the women and the crushing disappointment of realizing that success didn’t fill the hole inside him. He’d almost forgotten the simpler pleasure of playing with no expectations to meet.
The knowledge that she was listening only made it sweeter.
He let the final chord ring out, sustaining it longer than necessary, reluctant to let the moment end. His head stayed tilted back, his eyes closed, as the last notes faded into silence. His heart was pounding harder than it should have been, his breath coming faster.
Don’t look at her.
He looked.
She was standing at her kitchen window, bathed in the soft glow of moonlight, her hair loose around her shoulders and the thin fabric of her pajamas clinging to her luscious curves. A single tear glistened on her cheek, a tribute to the power of the music.
Their eyes met, and something arced between them, a connection that was both terrifying and thrilling. Her lips parted slightly, as if she were about to ask a question he wasn’t ready to answer.
He should have been the one to look away. He was the one who had sworn off this kind of connection. But he couldn’t. He was caught, trapped in her gaze like a moth in amber, until she blinked, breaking the spell.
A delicate flush crept up her neck, coloring her cheeks in the pale light, and she took a step backwards. He should have just let her go. Instead, he nodded. Just once. An acknowledgment of the moment they had shared.
He set the guitar aside carefully, then rose and crossed to the lamp. His hand hovered over the switch for a long moment before he turned off the light.
Go to bed, he told himself. But he didn’t leave. He remained hidden in the shadows, watching her.
Her hand came up to touch her wet cheek and something dark and possessive stirred in his chest. He wanted to go to her, to lick those tears from her face and find out if she tasted as sweet as she smelled, but he forced himself to remain still, watching as she turned and disappeared into the darkness of her own house.
The room felt empty without her gaze, and he finally retreated to his bedroom.
Sleep came eventually, but it brought no peace.
In his dreams, Sara stood in his kitchen, wearing nothing but one of his old band t-shirts.
The fabric barely reached her thighs, and when she stretched to reach something on a high shelf, he caught a glimpse of soft curves that made his mouth water.
Her hair was loose, falling in waves over her shoulders, and when she turned to face him, she wasn’t crying.
She was smiling.
“I made you breakfast,” she said. “Sit down.”
He sat, powerless to do anything else.
She set a plate in front of him—pancakes shaped like bunnies, because apparently his subconscious had a sense of humor—and then slid onto his lap as if she belonged there, all soft curves and fragrant skin. Her arms wound around his neck, her fingers playing with the fur at his nape.
“Ben,” she murmured against his ear. “Why won’t you let me in?”
He woke with a start, heart pounding, a dull ache in his groin. He lay in the darkness for a long moment, trying to get the dream out of his head.
This has to stop.
It was the only rational thought he could form. He had worked too hard to build this quiet, predictable life, and he wasn’t going to let one curvy human with a kind smile and a talent for baking destroy it.
The clock read 5:47 AM. Too early to be awake, too late to hope for more sleep. He lay in bed for a long moment, staring at the ceiling, trying to will away the lingering effects of the dream.
It didn’t work.
Finally, he dragged himself out of bed and into a cold shower, letting the icy water punish him for his weakness. By the time he emerged, the first pale light of dawn was creeping through his windows.
He made coffee on autopilot, his ears straining for sounds from next door despite himself. The creak of floorboards. The click of a light switch. The soft padding of feet on hardwood.
Nothing.
She’s probably still asleep, he thought. Normal people don’t wake up at the crack of dawn because they can’t stop thinking about their neighbor.
He drank his coffee standing at the kitchen window, watching her cottage. No lights came on. No curtains twitched. The morning stretched on, quiet and unremarkable, and she didn’t appear.
Good, he told himself firmly. I don’t want her to show up. I don’t want her bringing me food and smiling at me and making me feel things I have no business feeling.
By 7:30, he’d cleaned his entire kitchen, reorganized his spice cabinet, and checked his email three times. She still hadn’t come.
I’m not disappointed, he insisted as he grabbed his keys and headed for the door. This is exactly what I wanted. Space. Distance. Professional neighborly cordiality.
He pulled open the front door and nearly stepped on the box sitting on his welcome mat. It was a small cardboard container, tied with a cheerful red ribbon. A notecard was tucked beneath the bow, his name written in looping feminine script.
He stared at it for a long moment, his ears twitching.
Don’t pick it up. Just leave it there. Let the squirrels have it.
He picked it up.
The box was lighter than he expected, and when he lifted the lid, her vanilla and sugar scent wafted up to meet him, mingled with a hint of chocolate. Homemade cookies—thick and golden brown, studded with chunks of dark chocolate.
The notecard had fallen into his palm when he opened the box, and he turned it over to read her message.
Thank you for shoveling my driveway. You didn’t have to do that, but I really appreciate it. I hope you like chocolate chip—they’re my grandmother’s recipe.
—Sara
P.S. I promise there’s no bunny food in them.
Against his will, his lips twitched.
He hadn’t really intended to shovel her driveway, but after she left for school, the sight of her snow-covered drive had nagged at him like a splinter under his skin. She was new here. She didn’t know how quickly the snow could turn to ice. She could slip, fall, hurt herself…
Stop, he’d told himself, even as his feet carried him to the shed for the shovel. This is not your problem. She is not your responsibility.
He’d shoveled the whole thing anyway. And the walkway. And the path to her back garden, because once he started, he couldn’t seem to stop. And now she’d given him cookies. She was feeding him. Again.
I should throw them away.
He ate three before he made it to his truck.
He spent the rest of the day in a state of low-grade agitation. The tavern was busy—a Tuesday lunch crowd followed by a steady stream of locals and tourists in the evening—but he moved through it with a grim detachment, snapping at waitresses and bartenders and customers alike.
“Seriously, Ben,” Nina said, setting a glass of water on the bar in front of him. “You’re going to give yourself an ulcer. And you’re scaring the customers.” She pointed with her chin towards a table of tourists who immediately flinched.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine.” Nina leaned against the bar, her expression a mixture of concern and exasperation, then sighed. “But if you don’t want to talk about it, at least go work in the office before you scare off all the customers.”
Rather than arguing, he retreated to his office with a glass of whiskey, sinking into his worn leather chair with a sigh of relief.
The room was small but comfortable, the rustic wood paneling covered with old concert posters from other bands.
A small framed photo of The Bite in their heyday, four young Others convinced they were going to change the world, was the only reminder of his past.
He didn’t look at the photo anymore, hadn’t in years.
The whiskey burned pleasantly as it went down, smoothing the edges of his thoughts. He was just starting to relax when the door swung open without a knock.
“You look like shit.”
Adrian dropped into the chair across from his desk, all lazy grace and wolfish charm. The werewolf’s red hair was artfully tousled, his amber eyes glinting with amusement, and his smile showed just a hint of fang.
“Get out.”