Page 43 of Scarlet Angel

While I’m typing a response, a message appears.

Catarina Gagliano

I knew it was a bad idea to let you stay. If you don’t want to end up like Willow, you’ll come home.

I turn the phone off. If I return home, I will end up like Willow. My mother is willingly blind to reality.

Outside, there’s a slight drizzle and a mix of fog and cloud cover shrouds the tree line and beyond. I bundle up in Wellies, an overcoat with a hood, and a scarf. I leave in search of the barn dog that is aptly named Dog.

“Dog,” I call.

Lina is home, and it’s possible she’s off riding and the dog followed her. The stalls are empty. A pungent scent of wood chips and manure wafts in the breeze. Outside the stable, there’s another small building with a sliding door. The design matches the stable, and it looks like an extension. I haven’t seen the door open before, so I wander closer, curious.

I pause in the doorway and blink to ensure I’m not hallucinating.

Nick is shirtless, clinging to a pull-up bar, and lifting himself. Light perspiration coats his skin, highlighting the corded muscles along his back. In the mirror on the wall, I visually trace the line of his pecs, the ridges lining his firm abdomen, and a dusting of dark hair trailing down to the pair of sweats that hang precariously low on his narrow hips.

With each rise over the bar, he gasps for air. His jaw flexes with determination, his lips in a set, firm line.

The second he catches my reflection in the mirror, his movement slows. He drops from the bar, slaps his palms against his thighs, and addresses me in the mirror.

“Did you come to work out?”

“No.” I look like a fool. “I…ah, I was looking for Dog and didn’t know what was out here.”

He bends, picks up a white towel, and wipes his face, neck, and shoulders.

Back away, Scarlet.

My legs don’t move. My throat and mouth are dry.

The hair along his brow is darker, damp with sweat. Light shimmers along the curve of his biceps. The shirts and coats he sports reveal the breadth of his shoulders, but they don’t do justice to his taut, muscled abdomen.

“Scarlet?”

I bring my hand to my nose and pinch the bridge, snapping my brain back into functioning mode.

“Is everything all right?”

“Yes. Yes.”Tell him something. Anything. “Yes, ah, my mother wants me to come home.”

I shift my attention to the pasture.

My reaction to a shirtless man defies logic. I can’t remember ever being attracted to a man, at least not since school. A flash of Vincent naked comes to mind, his hairy chest, bulbous belly, and thick, gnarly curls. There it is. That’s the reaction I know. Revulsion. I can swallow again, but I don’t dare look Nick’s way.

“My family will probably become insistent. You might get a call.”

“Won’t be a problem.”

“Has anything happened yet? Any progress?”

His footsteps warn me he’s approaching, but I start when pressure befalls my shoulder.

“Wheels are turning.”

I risk a glance, and he’s donned a long-sleeve thermal.

“It’s my understanding several businesses were notified this morning that an investigation has been opened into their accounting practices.”

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