Page 2 of Trial Run

He’d just have to suck it up one of these days and go back. Tomorrow, he’d call Cameron. Have his assistant set up some meetings in the office, in person. But he’d do that tomorrow, not today, because he wasn’t ready to—

The doorbell chimed, which it never did at this time of day, and he hit the pause button on the treadmill. He wouldn’t answer the door, because he never did.

A quick check of the doorbell app on his phone showed a giant bunch of daffodils and a pair of legs. The flowers obscured the face of the person carrying them. He’d never order flowers, his birthday was months away, and anyway, no one ever sent him gifts.

A shattering sound cut through the air, followed by a shriek, and he jumped off the treadmill. He’d jogged to the door and yanked it open before he had time to think.

A woman knelt in a puddle of water on his porch, water soaking the knees of her jeans, surrounded by shards of glass and yellow flowers with wet green stems. Ben froze, his knees locking, because he could not actually slam the door in her face. Leaving her to step on broken glass.

He winced as she reached to pick up one of the larger shards.

“Don’t touch that.” The words came out harsher than he’d intended, but he was lucky he could form any words at all, because he’d opened this door, and now he had to figure out a way to shut it again.

Her gaze jerked up to him, and Ben lost track of his thoughts.

Her eyes were a light, bright gray, the clear color of a winter sky, startling against the thick dark brown lashes framing them. They were also wide with shock and sheened with tears. She wasn’t crying yet, but she wasn’t far from it.

“You’re not Francine Hays, are you?” Her voice was low and soft, shot through with distress.

“No.”

“Any chance you’re … Mr. Hayes?” A hint of desperate hope colored the words.

“You’ve got the wrong address.” He managed the clipped answer, then clamped his mouth shut, because his momentary distraction had faded, and now reality came rushing in. A reality in which he was standing at the threshold of his home with the door wide open.

The woman sat back on her heels, her high ponytail of deep brown waves swinging over her shoulder. She took a moment before speaking again.

“Of course it’s the wrong house,” she said, shaking her head. “I couldn’t have gone to the right house, even using my maps app. That would be way too easy for this morning. I’m so sorry I disturbed you.”

She shot to her feet, but wobbled on the way up, almost falling backward into the broken glass.

Ben lunged forward and put a hand on her elbow to help her up. Two things hit him at once. One, she was tall and curvy. She came up almost to his chin, her white sweatshirt soft and thick under his hand. And two, he was fully outside now, close to the dead center of his porch.

He jerked his hand away from her and took a big step backward.

“I’ll get the broom. Don’t move or you’ll step on the glass.” That had come out rude at best, but nothing mattered except getting back inside so he could breathe. He hurried back inside to his cleaning supply closet.

It was just the porch. He would not hand off the broom and watch a stranger clean up the mess from the safety of his kitchen. He would go out and sweep up the glass. Quickly, because she was still standing there, framed by the open doorway, waiting for him to return.

He registered more details once he’d made his way back to her. She wore slim jeans, the sweatshirt, and worn blue sneakers. Ordinary clothing, nothing that would make her stand out in a crowd. But her face was unusual. Oval-shaped and pale, with dark winged brows and a strong jaw. A complicated face, not easy to read. And those strange light eyes, glowing gray.

He’d been staring several beats too long. Her chin went up a notch, as if daring him to say something about her mistake.

He cleared his throat and gestured down at the glass shards with the broom handle.

“Stay where you are, and I’ll sweep it up.”

“If you’ll give me the broom, I’m happy to—”

“It’s fine,” he interrupted. “It’ll only take a minute. Don’t move.”

He took a deep inhale, stepped outside, and began sweeping the area around her feet, starting on her left side and circling around behind her. She stood still, like he’d told her to.

Ben’s breath picked up, because it had been a long time—weeks, to be precise—since he’d spent this much time outside, and pretending it wasn’t happening didn’t seem to be stopping the whole anxiety process.

Pretending to feel fine when you weren’t fine was not an advisable coping mechanism. If he were a patient, he’d tell himself not to do it. But he didn’t follow much of his own advice these days.

He stood six feet away from the door now. Eight. He swept faster, trying to finish the task before she noticed anything wrong.

---