Chapter 1 #2
Her gaze wanders around the restaurant again, lingering on one of the paintings. In it, a little cottage sits at the base of a range of mountains that I recognize as part of the Dolomites. Her lips curve up as she looks at it, and I can practically feel her longing from here.
Looking at the picture, I can understand. There’s something peaceful about it, despite the almost intimidating magnificence of the snow-tipped peaks. It makes me think about my own long-term plans of finding a house in the country with acres of land and privacy.
As I surreptitiously watch her—I don’t want to get busted again—something unusual strikes me.
She doesn’t look scared. Or even upset.
Which doesn’t make any sense.
Unless…
Is she so used to being hurt that it doesn’t phase her anymore?
Shit.
My molars nearly grind to dust at the thought.
My muscles twitch, desperate to move.
The woman glances my way again, this time casting a tiny smile in my direction.
Unexpectedly, my heart rolls over.
It’s the craziest feeling. And the most inexplicable.
I haven’t even spoken to her. Haven’t seen her close-up. She’s a stranger to me, and one in trouble, at that.
Yes, she’s attractive.
More than attractive. Beautiful, really.
But I’ve seen plenty of beautiful women and never had this sort of reaction. With my ex, Jane, it was a gradual shift from friendship to a relationship. During college and in my hookups after, the connection was built off lust and desire for temporary companionship.
I’ve never felt this instinctive draw to another woman before.
If I met her at the Hop-less Horseman, my favorite pub back in Sleepy Hollow, maybe I’d even ask her out. Or at the very least, offer to buy her a drink. Talk to her. See if this strange sort of magnetic pull is something real, or all in my head.
But I’m not home, and these aren’t normal circumstances.
A fact that’s slammed home as I watch the woman brush her fingers across her cheek, wincing as she does it.
Her bruised cheek.
Shit. What am I doing thinking about this poor woman this way?
And why am I not doing something?
The waitress comes back over to the woman’s table, this time setting down a roll of silverware, a small plate, and a stack of white napkins.
In the seconds that the red-haired woman—the color is like fire, really, bright crimson mixed with burnished bronze and streaks of shimmering gold—speaks to the waitress, I take a moment to collect my thoughts.
Stop staring at her, first of all.
Figure out a plan to help her.
I can’t exactly just call 911 and tell them I think a woman’s in danger.
I need to be sure.
It’s clear from the nonchalant demeanor of the waitress, she’s not going to be the one offering to help. Nor is the elderly man with his gaze glued to his newspaper. Or the owner, who’s a very nice man from what I remember, but is otherwise occupied.
And honestly, I want to be the one who helps her.
As I’m sitting here, contemplating the best approach, another thought strikes me.
What if the man who hurt her comes back?
What if he’s looking for her?
And if she’s sitting alone when he comes in… I’m close, but am I close enough to intervene? Possibly. But I’d rather not leave it to chance.
That decides it.
I’m going over there.
Pushing up from my chair, I cross the twenty or so feet between my table and hers.
Conscious of my size in comparison to hers—at six-one and over two hundred pounds, I’m significantly larger than her—I try to make myself appear as unthreatening as possible.
I hunch my shoulders a little. Avert my gaze so I’m not staring directly at her.
Keep my hands by my sides, loose and open, making it obvious I’m not carrying a weapon.
By the time I’m halfway there, her attention is on me again.
Her eyebrows rise in question.
As I take the last few steps towards her, I pitch my voice low as I say, “Hi. I’m Dave. Would you mind if I talked to you for a second?”
Dark brown eyes meet mine, chocolate touched with a hint of honey. A tiny line forms between her brows. “What about?”
“Well—”
Crap. Close up, she’s even prettier than I realized.
Something I didn’t spot earlier are her adorable freckles—a delicate spray of them dusted across her nose and cheeks. A hint of a smile appears as she watches me, making a tiny dimple to the side of her mouth appear.
“Well,” I attempt for a second time, “this might sound presumptuous. Nosy, really. But I couldn’t help noticing—” I lift my chin, angling it in the direction of her cheek. “Are you okay? Do you need help?”
“Help?”
“I know you don’t know me,” I continue. “But I think I could help. If you’ll let me. I work as a firefighter in a town just north of New York City. And I’m the Fire Marshal. So I have a lot of connections with the police. If you’re in trouble, I could get you—”
“Oh!” A quick laugh bursts out. “I’m not…” Trailing off, her expression softens. “I’m not in trouble. But I can see why you’d think that.”
My own brow furrows. “Are you sure?”
What I want to say but don’t is that I’ve heard women claim they weren’t in trouble before, only to find myself back at their house a week or month later, responding to yet another domestic violence assault.
“I’m sure.” She smiles, and my heart makes another daring dive to my feet and back again. Then she gestures at the chair across from her. “I can tell you don’t believe me. Would you like to sit down so I can explain?”
A beat later, her gaze skitters to my table, still loaded with my half-eaten, gluttonous meal. “Or not,” she adds. “I’m sure you’d like to get back to your—”
“No.” I quickly take a seat. “I’m done eating.” With a small smile of my own, I add, “I think I’ve gorged myself enough for tonight.”
Her smile broadens, and she almost hides the resulting flinch. Almost.
Once again, I silently scold myself for thinking of her as anything but a victim.
“It does look like you ordered enough to feed a small army,” she agrees. “But Carlo’s is the best. So I can hardly blame you. And—”
But she’s interrupted by the waitress stopping by again, this time with a slice of sausage pizza in hand.
Once the waitress leaves, the fiery-haired woman reaches across the table with her hand outstretched. “I’m Hollis. And I promise, Dave, I’m not in trouble. Though I really appreciate you coming over to check on me.”
Feeling unsettled and more than a little confused, I take her hand and give it a gentle squeeze. “Hi, Hollis. Like I said, I’m Dave. Enniston. And I’m really not trying to bother you. But I couldn’t just sit back and not do anything.”
Hollis gives my hand a firm squeeze in return. “And that’s why I’m going to tell you what really happened. Thanks to my job, I consider myself pretty good at reading people. And you seem like a legitimately nice guy.”
“I am,” I answer somewhat idiotically. As if I’d say I’m not?
Judging from Hollis’s expression, she has the same thought as me.
But she doesn’t say it. Thankfully. Instead, she says, “Well, Dave. It’s nice to meet you.”
“You too,” I echo. Then I gather my scattered thoughts and ask, “So, if you’re not in trouble… Can I ask how you got hurt?”
She pulls her hand away from mine, and for a second, I feel bereft.
Then she smiles again. “It all started with this asshole at the bar where I work. I noticed him being kind of… aggressive… with the woman he was with. His girlfriend, I think. Not hurting her, but kind of pushing her around. Berating her.”
“Pushing her around?” My voice takes on a rough tone.
“Yeah. I was keeping an eye on them. On her, especially. I know it’s not my job—we’re supposed to get the manager if there’s a problem—but if I’m right there…”
“If he was being aggressive with her,” I start, “then why are you the one with the bruise?”
Hollis lifts her chin, almost defiantly. “Because I don’t like it when men mistreat women. And I made sure he knew that. In no uncertain terms.”
My teeth grind to dust. “So he hit you?”
“Well.” The corner of her mouth quirks. “There was a little more to it than that.”