Chapter 10
Chapter
Ten
SCARLETT
His place is order. Mine is chaos.
I see boots lined by the door, a jacket hung where it belongs. A row of Stetsons hang from one wall, like he needs a hat for every occasion. The faint scent of pine and a woody spiciness fill the air.
Everything about this space says one thing—though I shouldn’t trust it.
Safe.
I feel it the second I step inside, and I hate how much I need it.
“Sit,” Donovan says, already moving past me.
I sink onto the edge of the dark leather couch, hands clasped tightly in my lap, listening as he moves through the kitchen.
Drawers. Cabinets. The low hum of the stove clicking on. The kind of normal that shouldn’t matter. But it does when you’ve been utterly lonely… and on the run for a year.
I close my eyes for a second, letting everything settle in. When I open them, he’s there, setting a glass of water on the table in front of me.
“Drink,” he says.
I do, slow at first. Then, all at once. I didn’t even know I was thirsty. My hands are still shaking when I set the empty glass down.
He notices. I can tell by the way the corners of his mouth tilt down. But he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he turns back to the stove, giving me space and putting me at ease.
I watch him move, measured and certain. Like he knows exactly what to do with his hands, his body, the space around him. It steadies something in me.
“You look like you cook a lot,” I say.
“Enough.”
“That’s not an answer. But you still like giving it,” I say, trying to sound relaxed and pulled together.
He glances over his shoulder. “It’s the one you’re getting.” His lips move, slightly, like he’s holding back a lopsided grin. Those too-kissable lips could be the death of me.
The pan hisses as he drops butter into it. Then I hear the crackle of shells, and eggs hit the pan.
A simple meal, but one I only now realize I need, stomach rumbling fiercely. I pat it with a hand, relieved he’s in the kitchen and unable to hear all the commotion.
Savory smells waft from the kitchen as he adds garlic, onions, some vegetables to a second pan, searing them while he keeps an eye on the first, spatula at the ready.
He flips the eggs after a couple of minutes, filling half the omelet with seared veggies.
Then, he adds a thin layer of shredded cheddar cheese, and folds it closed.
“This isn’t the first time you’ve made that,” I say. A stupid line. But there’s too much unsaid between us. So much I still don’t know.
“Yep.” Silence stretches. Then, he adds, “I do a lot of cooking at the station, for me and the other guys. Little things, like good food, mean a lot to me.”
Something in my chest tightens. “This means a lot to me,” I say, fixing my gaze on him. “In case I haven’t said that yet.” I press my palms together, trying to keep the shake out of my hands.
“You haven’t,” he says matter-of-factly. “And that’s okay. It’s been a helluva twenty-four hours.”
My head spins. I eye the clock, shaking my head. This time, the headache pulsing through my temples doesn’t kick back as much. “True. This time last night, I hadn’t even bid on you yet.”
“That’s right,” he says, flashing straight white teeth my way. “And I didn’t know I wanted you to yet, either.”
I let out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh. “You’re impossible.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
I believe that.
I watch him for a second longer. “I’m not Scarlett.”
He stills, just for a second. Then the spatula moves again. “That’s what you said earlier.”
“My legal name is Marielle,” I continue. “Marielle Ocasta.” Saying it out loud feels strange. It’s been so long, and it’s cost me so much more than I ever could’ve guessed.
“Marielle,” he says gruffly. “It’s a nice name, too.”
I take a deep breath then let the words pour out before I can think better of it. Because he deserves to know what he’s getting into. “I used to work with kids,” I say. “Foster placements. Home visits. Making sure they were safe.”
The pan sizzles as he adds another dab of butter. One omelet already sits on a plate, steaming. He doesn’t interrupt or rush me, so I don’t stop.
“There was a girl,” I say. “Six years old. Maybe seven. I was supposed to check in on her grandmother.” My fingers tighten. “But the grandmother wasn’t there. He was.”
I keep names out of it because it’s part of the job. Part of not violating privacy laws. And I don’t know if I could say his name anyway. The name of the man who’s had me running for far too long.
“He wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near that house,” I add. “Court order. Supervised visits only.” My voice stays steady, which surprises me. “He was high,” I say. “Angry. He thought I was there to take her… the little girl. ”
I swallow too loudly. “After seeing him… in his current state… he wasn’t wrong.”
The memory hits, sharp and fast. I don’t let it take me under.
“He had connections,” I say. “Money. Power. People who made problems disappear.”
I glance up at Donovan. He’s watching me now… completely still.
“I became one of those problems that day. He threatened us,” I tell him. “Me. The girl. Told me if I said anything, he’d make sure no one ever found her.” The words don’t shake though they should. I raise my chin, adding. “I testified against him anyway.”
Donovan’s turned off the heat on the stove. His spatula is on the counter, and his arms are crossed tightly over his chest. A muscle flexes in his neck as he listens, his stormy eyes drilling into me.
“They locked him up,” I say. “For a while.” It all washes back over me now. The day he tracked me down, held me at gunpoint. How he swore he’d ruin me, destroy my career, kill me if I didn’t disappear. “That’s when they came to me,” I say. “The Marshals. New name. New life. Different rules.”
I let out a breath, thinking hard around my next words.
“I followed all of those rules.” Every single one. “I didn’t leave anything behind. Didn’t keep anything I wasn’t supposed to. Didn’t tell anyone where I went or who I was now.”
My gaze drifts back to the kitchen. To him.
“My mom doesn’t even know where I am, though she knows I’m alive.” The words come out softer and more fragile because I don’t have certainties anymore… or answers. “I did everything right, and he still found me.”
I wrap my arms around myself and start pacing. “They were supposed to protect me,” I say. “That’s the whole point.” My voice cracks. “But my house is wrecked, and my neighbor says she ‘knows about me.’”
Donovan doesn’t say a thing. He just listens, though it looks like it takes something out of him to hold still.
I shake my head. “I don’t feel protected. I haven’t in longer than I care to think about, and I’ve lost everything. Everyone.”
Until you. Until one crazy night that felt like hope I no longer thought existed.
That’s the truth… the one I’ve been avoiding. The reason I can’t look at him now, even though every part of me longs to sink into his arms and forget about the world.
It doesn’t help that his gray-blue eyes flood with warmth and understanding. Or that he drops his arms to his sides like he’s half ready to reach for me, too.
I turn away, trying to ignore what I hunger for more than anything. A sense of home, of peace. Like I don’t have to do this all alone. But I have to or risk losing everything. Besides, he doesn’t deserve this. No one does.
I sniffle, wiping the back of my hand over my cheeks. “That’s why I was on the move the other night. That’s why I stumbled into the bachelor auction and bid on you. Because you looked… safe.”
Donovan nods once, heading my way. He sets a plate down in front of me. Eggs. Toast. Simple.
Then, he sits across from me. “You’re safe here,” he says.
“You can’t promise that.”
“I just did.”
My breath catches because he believes it. Completely. And for the first time since I stepped off that plane, I want to believe it, too.
“I don’t stay,” I say. It comes out softer now. Less like a warning. More like a confession.
His gaze doesn’t shift. “Then stay tonight.”
I look down at the plate and my hands, tracking the faint tremor that hasn’t quite left. “I don’t know how to do that,” I admit.
“Yeah,” he says. “You will.”
“Are you eating?” I ask quietly.
The pan still sizzles in the kitchen. “Have to finish mine. I’ll be right back.”
When he returns, we eat in silence, the only sounds the metal clink of forks against plates.
I stare at him, mind still swirling with too many thoughts. “You don’t regret this?” I ask.
He stops, setting his fork down. “No. Why would I?”
“Because I lied to you. I lied about everything.”
“You had to,” he reminds.
“But did I?”
“You were compelled by the U.S. Marshals to lie. To be somebody else. That’s more of an excuse than most people ever have.”
It comes out like it’s decided. I have the impression he could let it go at that.
Would he be able to let me go just as easily?