Stephanie
TWENTY-TWO
When he says he’s going outside to work on his wood, do not laugh.
In the orbit of a man who can literally do everything, I feel useless. What can I offer a man like him? Trauma and scars? Nightmares? Sleepwalking? Oh, and the cherry on top—a stalker. I’m quite the catch. One you would want to throw back in the lake the second you pulled it free.
He rinses my new favorite mug and makes me a fresh tea before preparing a triple-decker chicken sourdough sandwich with all the veggies one could hope for, with a bowl ofwashed, plump strawberries next to it.
“This bread is amazing. Which store is it from?” I wonder between bites as I shift on the bar stool I’ve decided is mine.
“None. I made it.”
He delivers another blow to my flailing femininity. “Well, congrats on being a star baker.”
His lips twitch as he takes a seat next to me and devours his sandwich, one huge bite at a time. That man’s mouth is a marvel. I’m still on my first half.
“What?”
“Did you even taste it?”
“Of course.”
“Did you enjoy it?”
“It’s food, Stephanie, not sex.”
He blinks like he can’t believe he just said that. That makes me snort before I can contain it. A moment later, he’s up and cleaning the already sparkling surfaces like he’s prepping for an open viewing day. It wouldn’t be the house I was interested in viewing—it would be him.
He runs a hand through his hair and glances to the side. “I’m going to check on the wood.”
“Another sexual reference?” I tease. “Do you need help?” Who am I kidding? I have almost zero experience in that arena, and the small taste I have had should have put me off for life. It has—had—until I met him.
Maybe it’s because he’s off-limits. Or because everyone tells me how terrible of a person he is.
I’ve never been the girl to fall for the proverbial bad guy.
It always baffled me how women flocked around them.
If a guy treats me mean, I leave. He’s not worth my time.
But James isn’t mean or bad. Good people do terrible things. That’s a tale as old as time.
He flies out of the rear door, and I tilt my head as he passes by the window, an ax swung over his shoulder like we are in a real-life fairy tale.
Okay, now this I need to see. Taking my plate, because there’s no way I am not devouring this sandwich, I cross the room to lean against the window and watch the best show on earth—a man trying to hammer out his feelings by splitting wood.
Next he’ll be rubbing sticks together and calling himself a pioneer.
I eyeball the tall stack of prepared wood next to the lodge.
Are we planning a bonfire or supplying whatever local town we are close to with their entire winter season’s worth of wood?
He toils away, his back to me as he breaks log after log. I continue to eat my sandwich with my gaze trained on this fabulous male creature out in the wild. I should narrate it. I could make a small fortune.
His shirt rises a little, offering me a peek of his bare skin.
I frown at the red mark that disappears as he straightens.
Is he injured? He turns and meets my eyes.
They are startling, intense, devastating.
I could lose myself in their depths. And now I am a poet about eyes.
Give me a break, brain. Life is not a romance novel.
It’s not even an episode from a low-budget romcom series.
It’s dark, hard, cold, and about survival first. But I’m done with just breathing to get through to the next day.
I need to live, and with that comes danger and the unknown, but also the possibility of more.
I finish the last bite of my sandwich with my attention still fixed on the increasingly impressive display of wood chopping taking place beyond the window.
It really shouldn’t be this attractive watching a man swing an ax through innocent logs, yet here I am, questioning whether I should be taking notes for future reference.
I shake my head to snap myself out of whatever spell this man casts over me with barely a glance.
“Get it together, Steph,” I murmur as I carry my plate back to the island.
I look down at the muted colors I’m wearing and decide I need to be truer to myself, even when I’m on the run from a monster.
My gaze catches on the open laptop on the breakfast bar.
James said he’d order me clothes, but he’d also blanked when I mentioned fluffy socks, so there was every chance he missed a few things.
Besides, he was outside, and I had no intention of interrupting whatever deeply personal conversation he was having with firewood and living out his mountain-man lifestyle.
“I’m helping,” I tell the empty kitchen.
The screen wakes beneath my fingertips, revealing exactly what I’d expected.
The shopping basket is still open, filled almost entirely with practical clothing.
Walking boots. Thick sweaters. Thermal leggings.
Waterproof pants. The man had apparently dressed me for an expedition to the Arctic or a zombie apocalypse.
I scroll through the order with a smile. “Honestly, James.”
A few clicks later, and a pale-blue knitted dress finds its way into the basket, followed by a soft cream cardigan that looks cosy enough to justify the hefty price tag.
You can’t compromise on a good cardigan.
I hesitate over a matching underwear set before adding it too.
Plus another. I have a weakness for silk and lace.
“If I’m hiding from a sick psychopath, I’d at least like to do it wearing pretty underwear.”
Another set follows because variety is important, along with fluffy Highland cow socks that serve no practical purpose beyond making me happy. I briefly consider silk pajamas before deciding I shouldn’t bankrupt the man simply because I’d developed a questionable relationship with online shopping.
Satisfied with my additions, I move the cursor back towards the basket, only for a notification to slide across the bottom corner of the screen.
Update: Burnside Investigation.
My hand stills on the trackpad. Christopher’s surname shouldn’t have the ability to steal the air from my lungs, but it does. Even printed in plain black text on a computer screen, it feels wrong, like seeing a snake coiled beneath a picnic blanket.
I should ignore it. Close the laptop. Finish my tea. Instead, I reach for the mouse before common sense has the opportunity to object.
The file opens onto a photograph of a young woman smiling into the camera.
She can’t be more than twenty-one; her hair caught by the wind and her face free from the kind of fear I’d started recognizing all too easily.
Beneath it sits another photograph, taken weeks later.
The same woman. The same eyes. A hospital blanket wrapped around her shoulders and bruises fading beneath yellowing skin.
I swallow hard as I continue reading. The file contains everything. Witness statements, medical reports, therapy recommendations, safe house locations, and progress updates stretching back months. There are notes that don’t belong in any official investigation.
Still refuses to sleep without the light on.
Favorite drink: hot chocolate with marshmallows.
Resumed university. Attending three lectures a week.
I stare at the screen before scrolling to the next file. Another woman. Another story. Another life that should have ended differently.
Each one contains details that no detective would need to know and no criminal would care about. Favorite flowers. Dogs’ names. The novels they read while recovering. Which therapist they trusted. Which nightmares still woke them.
Every file ends the same way.
Alive.
Not closed. Not archived. Alive.
The word sits at the bottom of each page like a promise.
I keep scrolling until Christopher Burnside’s name finally appears.
His file is nothing like the others. There are photographs taken from impossible angles, maps covered in colored markings, financial records, shell companies, properties, known associates, judges, politicians, and enough information to dismantle a small country.
Years of someone’s life have been poured into these pages, every thread painstakingly connected until an entire network stretches across the screen.
A folder beneath his profile catches my attention.
Current.
Without thinking, I open it.
My face fills the screen. My heart thumps in my chest, and my pulse quickens.
My breath comes quicker. It’s a photograph James took outside Honor’s cottage while Charlie was attempting to sprint away with my sneaker hanging triumphantly from his mouth.
I remember laughing. I don’t remember James standing there with a camera.
My pulse hammers against my ribs. The information beneath my name starts exactly as I’d expect. Height. Weight. Blood type. Injuries.
Then the list changes.
Prefers tea strong enough to stand a spoon in.
Favorite fruit: strawberries.
I glance at the bowl of red fruit with a frown.
Reads when she’s frightened because fictional problems are easier to solve.
My gaze lifts to the dual-use music room and library.
Sleepwalks. Would be safer in single-story accommodation.
I swallow the lump in my throat.
Will always offer help before asking for it.
Needs purpose almost as much as she needs safety.
I read the lines again, slower this time. These aren’t observations made by someone collecting information. They’re the thoughts of someone who has been paying attention. Not to my weaknesses, but to me.
Fear of calla lilies remains a powerful trigger.
My fingers curl around the edge of the laptop as I reach the final line.
Protect at all costs. Failure is not an option.
The back door opens behind me before I have a chance to process what I’ve just read.
“I just realized we need to call your brother before he sends out a search party.”
James’s voice is calm, but when I turn to face him, his gaze lands on the open file and something changes in his expression.
Not anger. Not panic.
Something far more dangerous.
Regret.