Page 19 of The SEAL's Runaway

“Caleb. You’ve been so kind, but you don’t owe me anything.” Her accent was neutral. He suspected she was working hard to keep it that way, so it was more difficult to know where she came from.

“I almost ran you over. It’s the least I can do.”

“I don’t know.” She stared out the window, arguing done for now at least.

She should stay with me till her car is fixed.

He tried to ignore this new tantalizing notion rattling around in his head but the idea was seductive, tempting him with her presence, her warmth filling the empty spaces in his solitary existence even though he knew better than to entertain such thoughts for long.

He pushed the idea aside. It would be temporary and then she would be gone. He had learned the hard way the consequences of letting people in too close, of allowing himself to care. He still bore the scars.

Yet, even as he pushed the notion away, a flicker of longing ignited within him. He couldn’t deny the pull he felt toward Grace, the desire to keep her safe, to shield her from the danger hunting her. An edge of anxiety gnawed at his senses, one that only eased when he was close to her, as if there was some unseen danger his sixth sense was picking up, only assuaged by her closeness where he could protect her.

“What can you tell me about the men chasing you in the woods?”

Grace glanced around, as if afraid someone might overhear. “I can’t drag you into it.”

He reached for her arm, a gentle reassurance. “You’re not alone in this. If you’re in trouble, I can help you.”

She managed a weak smile. “Caleb, you’ve already done enough. I can’t risk more people getting hurt because of me.”

Caleb sighed, swallowing his exasperation. Give her time.

He pulled up at Mitch’s garage. It hunkered low in the heart of one of Aurora Cove’s major intersections. The concrete lot, weathered by snowstorms and unforgiving temperatures, was cluttered with snowmobiles and battered pickup trucks bearing the scars of wild adventures. At the forefront sat Mitch’s tow truck, his pride and joy, its polished exterior gleaming under the winter sun. Secured on the bed of the tow truck was an aging Ford. “Yours?” Caleb’s gaze shifted to Grace.

She nodded silently. Under a crumpled hood, one of the Ford’s wheels dangled at a peculiar angle, a testament to the run in with a tree she had described the night before. Caleb was no mechanic, but it didn’t take an expert to discern the prognosis was far from optimistic.

“Maybe you should wait here.” He turned off the engine.

Grace unclipped her seat belt without hesitation. “No. I’m coming in.” She lifted her chin. No negotiating.

“Okay.” He jumped down from his truck, the sharp air stinging his cheeks.

By the time he reached her side, Grace had already swung open the passenger door. Caleb extended his hand to help her out.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Why does everything with you have to be a goddamn fight? I have no ulterior motives. I help every woman out of my truck. It’s a fucking big step.”

The line of her mouth pinched, and he regretted his words. He blew out a breath and offered her his hand once more.

She slid her uninjured hand into his. So small.

“Thank you.” She stepped down beside him.

Pleasure rippled through him when she didn’t remove her hand straight away. “You’re welcome.”

His reply brought a smile to her lips, and she rocked on the balls of her feet as if weighing her words. “It’s been a long few years.”

Same, sweetheart.

Time stretched out between them, and for a few beats, there was nothing in his world but Grace. The rise of her cheekbones, sooty lashes that framed exquisite eyes that made him feel like she saw right through him.

“Come on.” He hurried her across the lot to the main building. Frost obscured windows framed with peeling paint. Mitch was a genius with an engine, but building maintenance wasn’t his forte.

The door creaked as Caleb pushed through. Inside, the aroma of motor oil mixed with heated metal and the hum of a space heater greeted him. Mitch lifted his head from where he was bent over a running engine, his weathered flannel shirt peeking through the open zip of his dark green coveralls.

He raised a hand in greeting and leaning into the car, silenced the engine. Wiping his hands on an oily rag, Mitch approached them, a smile on his grizzled face. “Meyer. Good to see ya.”

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