Page 25 of Lesson In Forgiveness

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An hour later, Grit returned to his room with a brown paper bag full of every possible thing he might need to keep Tabitha from running, arguing, or beating him to death with a lamp.

His wallet was several hundred dollars lighter, and his head was still full of her.

Because she seemed to like surprising him in the bedroom, he kicked off his boots and headed there first to drop off the bag. Shrugging off his jacket, he walked back into the living area, hung up the jacket, and gratefully dropped into the corner seat of the couch.

It was bad when he wished he had her phone number, he realized. She probably wouldn’t pick up if he called, but maybe it would alleviate this sense of helplessness. Right now, he didn’t know if she was dead or alive, if she was hurt or scared, and that… aggravated him on a primal level.

“Not my problem unless she comes here,” he muttered to himself, reaching for the TV remote and switching on the screen. Scrolling through the channels, he chose some cop show to keep his mind occupied, and dragged the pizza box onto his lap. “Can’t track her, can’t contact her, so it’s out of my hands.”

Gunfire blasted through the TV speakers as he bit into a vaguely warm slice. Even on the verge of cold, it was still the best damn pie he’d ever had. The first bite reminded him he’d had to skip lunch after the fucking disaster on site earlier that afternoon; the one where a roofer lost his footing and plummeted off one of the cabin roofs.

The guy was lucky he’d only broken his arm and gotten a concussion. The idiot had landed on a pile of discarded tarps, striking the back of his head on the thinnest part of the heap and the ground underneath, but his body had made contact with the bulk of the pile.

Three feet on either side of his landing site were several crates of slate tiles to the left, and an unforgiving stack of support beams to the right.

Grit had spent most of his afternoon helping with first aid, then paperwork.

He was so fucking glad it was the weekend.

Two beers, an entire pizza, and three episodes of The Rookie later, Grit was yawning every couple of minutes and ready to call it a night. He’d spent more time lifting and carrying shit the last few weeks than he spent in the gym, and he swore he walked a dozen miles a day checking out the construction crew under the pretense of helping.

Just because the threat had switched over to Tabitha didn’t mean the Irish prick behind this mess wasn’t waiting for the right fish to snap up another shot at Elias. The whole debacle started with the Brit; one way or another, it would undoubtedly end with him too.

Stifling another yawn, Grit stood and tidied the table ready for housekeeping the next morning, flipping off the TV with the remote. The damn room was beginning to feel like home, which he hated; he wanted to go home to his own place, with familiar carpet beneath his feet, his carefully chosen furniture around him, and his big-ass TV screen exactly where he’d left it.

Debating on taking a quick shower before he went to bed, he walked into the bathroom and switched on the light, his dick halfway in hand as he stopped in front of the toilet.

The dark shadow to his left made him pause and turn his head slowly.

“Goddamn it.”

Tabitha sat in the bath. Fully dressed, no water in the tub. Her expression was strangely subdued, the light in her eyes absent. They flicked to him, dull and empty. “I knocked.”

“Mmm-hmm. Why are you in the bathtub with all your clothes on, little tiger?” Abandoning his ablution mission, he crossed the short distance to her, going down on one knee.

“I don’t know.” Her teeth worried her lower lip. “What are you doing to me?”

“Not touching,” he pointed out, lifting his hands.

“I was fine before you. I loved my job, I could do it over and over again without losing sleep. You came along and now I can’t sleep. Everything tastes wrong. One week away from you and I feel like my world is tilting.” She twisted her wrist, holding her palm out flat until it angled toward the wall. “I don’t like it.”

Grit sighed. This was a twist he hadn’t expected. Obsessive stalking was one thing; an emotional attachment from a woman who vehemently claimed she felt no emotion? Something messy was brewing, and he was smack in the middle of it.

The misery on her face tripped his Dom switch. Caring was ingrained in him, and seeing her this way, so unlike her usual manic self, was disconcerting.

Cautiously, he reached out and brushed the back of his fingers down her jawline. When she didn’t break them off and stuff them up his nose, he cradled her cheek in his palm, unnerved by her capitulation as she let him take the weight of her head.

“When did you last sleep, Tabitha?”

She blinked. “I can’t remember.”

“Hmm. Eat?”

Her slim shoulders rose and fell in a shrug.

Grit rubbed his other hand over his face. There probably wouldn’t be a better opportunity to tie her up and send her back to her brother than now, but it wasn’t the right thing to do.

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