Page 55 of Shadowing Her Stalker

“I needed to make some of my own choices,” she countered without missing a beat. She looked over at him. “I’ve been wearing clothes someone else picked out, sleeping in a bed I haven’t felt comfortable in since I was seventeen, riding around in a car I don’t own, with a guy I barely know, and eating random vegetables scrounged from the depths of my parents’ deep freeze.” She flashed a shaky smile. “I’m pretty sure there are jars of pickles in the cellar older than I am.”

Wyatt blew out a breath, his shoulders drooping as he took in her words. “Man, Cara, I’m sorry—”

“No.” She held up a hand, cutting him off. “I’m grateful. For all of it. Grateful I got away from Gerald Griffin, grateful to have friends and financial wherewithal to do this. Not everyone has a soft place to land...a place to call home no matter how long they’ve been away. I’m so lucky and I know it,” she said earnestly. “But today, I needed a few minutes to just be me, you know?”

“I get it.”

“It feels like all I’ve been doing for the past few weeks is reacting.” She looked him directly in the eye. “Honestly, I don’t know how much longer I can do this. I can’t live my life according to rules other people make up for me.”

“I understand.”

And he did. Wyatt knew he’d be champing at the bit if he were in her shoes. Shock and sheer terror had carried her for days. She’d bounced from one blow to the next like a boxer pinned against the ropes.

But now she was coming around.

This punch-drunk powerhouse outfitted in her brand-new sassy pants would soon be ready to come out swinging, and he was going to be the guy to hold whoever was responsible for terrorizing her up for her to pummel.

She reached for her abandoned cup of coffee and took a healthy slug. She wrinkled her nose as she dropped it back into the cup holder. “Not so tempting when it’s tepid.”

“We can get a fresh one for the ride home,” he offered, reversing out of the parking space.

“Nah, I promised you lunch, remember?”

“I rarely forget about onion rings,” he intoned gravely.

She jiggled her knee, clearly still hyped up on her taste of freedom. “Excellent. Head out to Highway 7 South. There’s a dairy bar down the road a piece.”

“I love a good dairy bar.” He hit his turn signal and headed in the direction she indicated.

A few miles outside town, Cara contented herself with an order of hand-battered onion rings while he wolfed down a ridiculously sloppy barbecue bacon burger the woman at the order window claimed was the best thing on the chalkboard menu.

Cara crunched into a ring the circumference of a softball and hummed her appreciation as she chewed, her gaze fixed on a point in the middle distance.

“Everything okay?” It was a ridiculous question, given their circumstances, but he was dying to know where her mind was.

“Do you mind if we stop by a grocery store on our way back through town?”

The request jarred a laugh from him. “Worried about your next meal already?”

“Always,” she replied without missing a beat. “I was thinking I could pick up some fruit besides apples and oranges, and I’d sell an internal organ for a bean burrito.”

“Wow. Quite a refined palate you have there. I’m not sure your internal organs would fetch a good price on the open market if all you’re eating are bean burritos.”

“Oh, I eat other things. Given something other than plastic-wrapped American cheese slices, I can put together a grilled cheese sandwich deserving a Michelin star,” she boasted.

“I believe all grilled cheese sandwiches deserve a Michelin star, but you can be snobby if it makes you feel better.”

“Some feta, nuts and quinoa would make me feel much better about eating the bagged salads my mom bought me.” She took a noisy slurp of the chocolate milkshake she’d ordered, then let her head fall back against the seat. “And I could get some Brussels sprouts to grill.”

He shuddered then reached over to swipe an onion ring from the paper bag. “I can’t believe you’re even thinking about Brussels sprouts while eating these.”

“What can I say? I’m multidimensional,” she said, gesturing for him to finish the last ring off. “And I can’t go on eating potatoes, onions and okra. I’m going to turn into gumbo.”

“Well, we can’t have that.” He crumpled his own wrapper, gathered their trash and reached for the door handle. “I’ll go toss this and we’ll be on our way. We need to get back. I have work to do.”

While Cara shopped, Wyatt called her parents to let them know they were in town longer than expected, but the call went to voicemail. Forty minutes later, they were sailing down Highway 65 hauling a decent sampling from Cara’s favorite food groups—cheese, frozen burritos, snack crackers and breakfast pastries.

“Why don’t you try calling your parents? Let them know we’re heading back,” he suggested, nodding to the phone she’d tossed into the console on their way into town.

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