Page 14 of Keeping Ava

Ava

I’m a wimp. Can’t deny it even if I wanted to.

Not when I’ve gone out of my way to hide from him for four days now. If he enters the room I’m in, I leave, finding any excuse under the sun to avoid meeting his stare for longer than a few seconds.

To keep from drowning in his everything.

It’s the only way to survive him. Us. This attraction that is wrong—forbidden for more reasons than just his job. His assignment to protect me.

My attention should be on surviving Jason’s threat, on staying alive, and not on the detective keeping me safe—even if he is the embodiment of everything I find attractive in a man.

He’s strong and protective and thoughtful, and fuck me if he’s not handsome. Sexy in a way that makes my breath hitch and palms sweat whenever he’s close.

It’s a weakness. A temptation.

To not fall for him; I flee.

To not lick his jaw; I hide.

Like now, I’m standing in front of the door to my room contemplating my next move: head outside, or stay? Offer myself, or disappear?

Stop. Breathe. It’s nothing and will stay nothing.

Not that simple for two reasons:

I’m attracted to him.

And, my predicament leaves very little in the choice department.

I need clean clothes. Desperately. However, avoiding the temptation he brings to the table is making a commonsense problem hard.

Especially when he’s kind. When he goes out of his way to anticipate what I might need or how he doesn’t bring attention to my neurotic behavior.

The small amount of clothes I was able to grab in our rush to get on the road is dirty, and I’m down to my last pair of panties. I’ve avoided this long enough, and as I glare at the door, I breathe in deep to quell my nerves.

That flutter of butterflies that suddenly appears when I see him.

“Get out. Do laundry. Come back,” I whisper low, hand shaking as I turn the knob and pull. Suddenly, the Mission Impossible theme song plays through my mind, and I stifle a giggle at my own ridiculousness. Here I am, tiptoeing out of the room while looking around like an idiot and shielding myself with the laundry basket Elijah was kind enough to put in my room.

Dear God, I’ve become certifiable.

Heading toward the small closet near the kitchen, I take notice of his office door being closed and pause. It’s a first. Is he in there?

That’s also the moment I realize there’s no noise—no sign of him...anywhere.

It’s disappointing and a relief all at once. It also makes me wonder just where he is.

Elijah’s always here, working or sitting out on the balcony watching the tide come in every evening. It’s a ritual, watching him from the entrance to the living room and out of sight, taking in the sharpness of his jaw and the bob of his throat as he sips a tall glass of iced tea.

It’s the most serene I’ve seen him. Calm and fucking beautiful.

“Where are—what the hell is that?” I whisper-shout, almost dropping the basket in my hand. There’s a deep and sudden rumble, followed closely by the sound of something hard hitting the floor.

And even though I shouldn’t, I follow it, walking toward the sound. It takes me to just inside the living room where I stop because what greets me there messes with my system. With that internal clock that all women have.

Elijah Ford is here.

Asleep on his couch.

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