Page 18 of Burning for You

God dammit.

Life has truly betrayed me. This isn’t supposed to happen!

As her trembling eases, I let her go and wave my arms, trying to wake up the light sensor, and it works.

Now that we can see again, Carolyn looks around, seemingly trying to remind herself where she is. Then she looks up at me. Releasing her hug with a gasp, she says, “Did I go into a men’s bathroom?”

“Um… yeah.” Then I point at my phone. “I’m gonna call an ambulance, okay?”

“No!” She sweeps at my hand, her eyes staring at me in horror.

“Alright, no ambulance. But are you sure you’re okay?”

Carolyn nudges herself away from me. With soft eyes, she says, “I’m fine. I probably just need food.”

Hell yeah, she does. This lady is as pale as a sheet of frozen puff pastry.

“Just help me up, please,” she says.

I pull her up, but she can barely stand. So I hang onto her waist, watching my grip to ensure I’m not giving out inappropriate vibes. But God, she feels so good to hold.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” I repeat as she tries to steady herself over those sky-high stilettos.

Carolyn looks down at herself, most likely feeling her twisted panties and strange-fitting skirt. She then throws a gaze at me.

Her eyes look like a reflection of mine. Their color matches mine, the intensity matches mine—tricking me into believing she can’t be evil.

“I think I’m okay,” she says, still giving no sign of wanting to get away from me. If anything, she puts her hand on my shoulder.

With guilty reluctance, I release my grip and shift my shoulder away from her reach.

“I need to sort myself.” Carolyn flicks me a look, begging. “Could you wait outside to make sure no one comes in?”

“Okay,” I say, playing along with the possibility that she still believes this is the men’s room, despite the absence of urinals.

Her scrutiny makes even the simplest task of picking up my phone problematic. I fumble as I try to gather the device from the cubicle floor.

“Thank you,” she says, smiling as if enjoying my nervousness.

I stride out. Sensing no presence around me, I power-walk along the corridor, making my way toward the elevators. I still don’t know where Grant has disappeared to, but I have to get the hell out of this—

I don’t even know what it is. Reality, nightmare, torture, dilemma?

But Carolyn Meyer spoils my chance. From another direction, she seems to be walking toward the same elevator. Before she sees me, I slip out of the fire door and walk down. All forty-three floors.

At no time have I been torn like this. Actually, worse than torn. This situation has put me under a guillotine—my head rolls inside a basket, and the rest of my body stays bowed toward the apparatus.

Disconnected.

Dead.

But I owe it to Jesse, I owe it to Dad and the other Holts who have gone before me.

I will screw my head back, and I will make Carolyn Meyer kneel and return our land—every acre, every square inch.

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