Page 52 of Graveyard Dog

“If you want one before you head home, that is.”

“I do. Thanks.”

She nodded and disappeared into her bedroom.

Michael tucked Emma into bed, then returned to the sofa and his beer. There was something about how Izzy walked to herbedroom, flinging her hair over one shoulder as she looked back at him. The way the light from the kitchen followed her down the hall, only to be chased away by the shadows as they swallowed her whole. The movement created a nostalgic sense of déjà vu. He thought about a girl in a bikini, a brightly colored wrap around her lower half, worn flip-flops slapping against her heels.

He leaned against the sofa, letting his mind drift to a scorching sun and a run-down motel. To the girl he’d left behind. What was her name?

“Your turn.”

He opened his eyes to see Izzy standing over him. “That was fast.”

“Not really. You were snoring.”

“That wasn’t a snore. That was evolution.” When she smirked at him in doubt as she towel-dried her hair, he explained. “By making that sound in their sleep, my ancestors were warning any wild creatures that they were at the ready for them. Waiting. Wanting them to strike. Practically begging them to. Their survival skills kept the creatures at bay.” He stood and looked down at her. “If you think about it, it’s more like a growl than a…you’re wearing that robe again.” He noticed the article of clothing when she tossed her wet hair back and started running her fingers through it. Drops of water penetrated the thin material in the most auspicious of places.

“It’s the only one I have,” she said, closing it self-consciously.

“Right. Okay, my turn.” He stepped into the hall but stopped mid-stride. “Where am I going?”

“Oh, use my bathroom. The one in the hall doesn’t have a shower.”

Seriously? Another thing he would have to see to during the renovation.

As he stood under the scalding water—at least the water heater worked—he tried not to think. He tried especially hardnot to think about that robe and those water droplets and how Izzy’s lashes, spiked with wetness, looked like tiny paintbrushes with black ink on them. He tried not to think about her smile or the tiny scars at the corners of her mouth. He tried not to think about the curve of her neck—or any other curves, for that matter. And it all would’ve been much easier if Izzy hadn’t barged in on him, thrown back the shower curtain, and cast him an accusing stare.

Damn it. Was the Stockholm Syndrome back already?

He tried to preserve his modesty—and his manhood—by turning his back to her, but she took his arm and ran her fingers along one of his tattoos. He used his free hand to sweep his hair back so he could look down on her disapprovingly. “Iz, I’m not sure—”

“I’ve only really been in love once,” she said, looking up at him.

“Is that so?”

“For five days. And then he was gone.”

“He died?”

“No, he and his mother moved on.”

She had changed into a T-shirt that barely reached the tops of her thighs.Thosethighs. The ones he was trying desperately not to notice.

“I got the feeling they were in some kind of trouble,” she continued. “But he didn’t really say.”

This would get awkward really fast if she didn’t leave. He cleared his throat. “How old were you?”

“Nine. No, ten.”

Alarmed, he asked, “And how old was he?”

“Twelve.”

“Ah, an older man. Do you have anything that doesn’t smell like peaches?” He loved the scent on her. Him? Not so much.

“We used to sit at the side of this disgusting half-empty pool and talk for hours.”

He turned off the shower and reached over her for a towel. “Did you tell him about your ability?”

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