Page 19 of Lost in the Moonlight

His eyes narrowed. “As I said, you’re not blowing me off, Willow. Tell me what’s really going on. Why were you in the cemetery, and why did you refuse to call the police on Poco?”

I wanted to roll my eyes. I was so tired of talking about it already. I wanted to just let it blow away like the storm. I turned up my smile and said, “Really, there’s no need for you to be involved.”

He was standing so close I could feel those sparks of attraction traveling over me again. I imagined myself grabbing hold of each tiny flame, holding on for a brief moment before letting them fly up into the sky as I sent Lincoln on his way.

“I’m afraid it’s too late for that,” Lincoln insisted. “Even more so now that I know you live across the street from me. If I still had my detail, they’d be knocking down your door and Poco’s after it. I don’t want to have to call them back. I like my privacy too much.”

“So, in order for you to keep your privacy, I have to give up mine?”

My words seemed to hit home, because he looked uncomfortable for the first time since laying out his demand for me to get into his car. Brilliant blue eyes looked both sad and determined.

And suddenly, I was angry. At him for not letting go. At my life for making me shove this stunning man away. At all the things I couldn’t have. I let the emotion sink into my veins for all of two seconds, but then I let it go, just like the sparks. I knew more than anyone what anger did. It destroyed. It tore through goodness and let evil win.

I wouldn’t let it back in my life. I’d already had enough of it.

Chapter Seven

Lincoln

HOLD MY HAND

Performed by The Fray

She had put me in myplace with her comment about her privacy. Iwasdemanding she give it up—but only to me. Only so I could sleep at night, knowing she was safe. Not that I’d sleep for long, but she didn’t need to know that. Just like she didn’t need to know that if she didn’t give me this, the insomnia would likely worsen until I was back on the sleeping pills I hated with a passion.

I watched as waves of emotions crossed her expressive face. Sorrow. Anger. Resignation. Sadness. It was the sadness after she’d seemed so light—even after Poco’s assault—that hit me the hardest.

“I promise, I’m not going to shout your business to the world,” I said, gentling my tone from the growly demand it had been. “I’m asking you to tell one person. To tell me so I rest easier.”

Our gazes locked once more, debate warring between us. This morning, I’d backed down, only because I’d realized arguing with her at her work wasn’t going to win her over. Instead, I’d gone back to the gallery, unpacked a few more things, and then set up the computer in the window along the street. I’d logged in to another round of messages from my family I hadn’t had the energy to answer and deleted another from Felicity that had my jaw clamping tight.

It had been pure luck that when I’d left the gallery, Willow had been exiting the café. I’d tried not to put too much meaning into it as I’d pulled up beside her and demanded she get in. I’d been half surprised when she’d agreed. Just like I was half surprised when she relented now and turned without another word to unlock the cottage door.

I stepped in behind her as she disarmed the alarm system, taking in the low ceilings crisscrossed with exposed beams and the dormer that let in more natural light than the series of tiny windows along the front. The furnishings were very feminine. A creamy-yellow couch littered with a multitude of floral pillows, and a striped, mint-and-cream armchair that matched the sheer curtains.

It felt sweet and sunshiny.

It felt decidedly like Willow, even though she’d said she lived there with her mother.

She tossed her patchwork bag and coat over the arm of the couch before making her way toward the kitchen separated from the living area by an island of brick and granite. The cabinets were painted a modern white, proving the place had been renovated sometime in this century, even though the cottage felt like stepping back in time.

“Tea?” she asked.

“No, but thank you.”

Silence settled between us. Not uneasy exactly but edgy. Both hers and mine. She didn’t want to talk, and yet I couldn’t let go of the idea that she needed protection. Even recognizing my need to shield her was a result of the baggage of my past, I couldn’t walk away. I wouldn’t let another woman be hurt, knowing I could have prevented it.

She fiddled with the edge of a towel covering a large rectangular pan on the island. Alongside it were jars of colorful pastes, paintbrushes, and stacks of culinary tools I’d only seen in professional kitchens. It was a weird mix of baking and art supplies.

Curious, I nodded toward the items. “What are you making?”

She practically glowed at the question, a smile taking over her face that turned her into a dazzling display so bright it was hard to look straight at her. “Just playing around with an idea.”

Willow tucked the towel closer to the pan, clearly unwilling to share more, which only piqued my curiosity. She was a series of contradictions—shiny vivacity and quiet mysteries—that would have intrigued me even if my body wasn’t already craving her. And there was no denying that it did.

How had I gotten here? All but forcing my way into her house and requiring replies to questions she had no obligation to answer.

I tore my gaze away from her glow, and my eyes caught on a large picture hanging on the wall near the archway leading to the bedrooms. It was a photograph of Willow and an older blond-haired woman. They had their arms around each other, cheeks pressed together. The woman was a sturdier, slightly taller version of Willow with blue eyes instead of gray. A sadness dripped from her gaze defying the happy tilt of her lips.

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