Page 3 of Safe Haven
He runs his finger from my temple to my bottom lip, which he then pries out from between my teeth and rubs as he waits for me to answer.
My pulse jumps, and my breath catches at the action.
“You’re dangerous to my health.”
Joel shrugs with that cocky grin I’ve learned to love.
“Probably, but I promise only to ruin your panties.” He winks as I glare at him.
Too fucking late, buddy.
Chapter One
HAVEN
Present Day
“Great job today. Remember to read up on…” I ignore what the professor is saying and gather my things into my bag.
Thirty-two years old and back on a college campus is traumatic enough, but to listen to a guy five years younger than me trying to teach a subject I’ve been actively working in for a decade is fucking stupid.
However, the great state of Maryland has deemed it necessary that I take four more classes to get my PHD in Pathology because being an MD isn’t fucking sufficient enough for my promotion.
I’ve got a mind to sue them for my therapy bills, ‘cause this is tantamount to torture. PTSD will ensue.
I walk across the campus to the student parking lot and smile at my Ducati.
The only bearable part of this miserable flashback to my younger college days is that I can dress like myself. No stuffypant suits, skirts, or high heels unless I want to wear them. So here I stand in black jeans, my Doc Martens, and an old band t-shirt with so many holes in it that it needs the safety pins attached to stay on my torso, hanging off one shoulder.
I thank my younger self for all the sunscreen I wore to stay pale in the Jersey sun to have my great skin, which lets me blend in with this late teen, early twenties crowd.
I fix the straps on my backpack and then put on my helmet before starting the motorcycle and driving off into the suburb of Baltimore where I live. I pull into my driveway and turn off the bike as my neighbor waves at me.
“Hello, Mrs. Duncan.” I wave back with a smile.
“That dog of yours has been going crazy, love.” Uh oh.
I glance at my front windows and sigh.
The curtains are ripped down, again. The blinds are barely hanging on, and I can see right into my kitchen from where I stand, which is how I catch Diesel, my one-year-old Dobermann, jumping down off my counter.
“Sorry, Mrs. Duncan,” I say as I march my ass to the front door and type in the code to open it.
“I can doggie sit if you want.” The elderly woman says from where she’s planting flowers in her front yard.
She’s a hundred pounds soaking wet, maybe five feet tall, and looks like a stiff gust of wind would knock her over. How she thinks she can handle my demon spawn of a dog is beyond me.
“I’ll think about it!” I call out before walking into the warzone that is my house.
“DIESEL!” I yell as I take stock of what is broken and what can be salvaged.
Curtains, blinds, two vases, and my throw pillows are all a lost cause. My TV, coffee tables, and lamps all look okay. The couches are questionable.
“Those stains better not be shit!” I curse and move into the hallway and grumble as I see my new rug destroyed.
“Fuck dude, that wasn’t even here a week!” I drop my bag on the kitchen counter as I try and fail to keep calm when I see my crockpot shattered on the floor and my dinner spilled all over the floor.
“Remember how I said you could keep your balls? I changed my mind! Kennel NOW!” I point at the metal cage and glare at my dog.
