Page 1 of Blurred Lines

CHAPTER 1

LAUREN

The forest was beautiful at this time of year. Trees bursting into leaf, birds singing their sweet chorus, deer peeping between the trees before skittering into the undergrowth. I was nothing but a guest in their world. For the past three months, I’d trodden this winding path four times a week as I trained to run the Boston Marathon in memory of my sister. She’d been a keen sportswoman, a track star in college before…before he took her. The Sutherton Strangler. He’d seen her and chosen her and killed her. Almost a year had passed, but the pain was still raw.

A sob welled up as I skirted a fallen branch. I missed Julianna with every breath I took, and knowing I’d never see her again left me with a void in my chest that I’d never fill. Why her? I’d asked the question a thousand times, but nobody had ever been able to give me an answer. Not even the Sutherton Strangler—he’d remained staunchly silent throughout the entire trial.

A bird shot out of a sturdy pine and flew right at me, some kind of raptor with enormous wings and a beak to match. I caught sight of its gleaming yellow eyes as I leapt out of the way, and saw sky then dirt then sky again as I tumbled down a muddy slope and landed in a heap at the bottom.

Holy crap, that hurt.

Gingerly, I tested each limb in turn, hoping for the best, but when I tried to stand, my left ankle buckled under me as pain radiated through my leg. I couldn’t walk. Hell, I could barely even hobble. I was three miles from civilisation with no phone signal, and I’d have to either crawl back to my car or become vulture food.

Unless… Unless I could find help.

There was a cottage a quarter mile away. A tumbledown little shack I’d always assumed was abandoned until the last time I ran past it. That had been a week ago, and I’d seen smoke rising from the chimney. Was anyone home? Would they have a car? The thought of knocking on a stranger’s door made my chest seize, but I had to try.

Hopping to the cottage took a half hour, and as I approached, I heard a rhythmic thunk, thunk, thunk coming from the backyard. Someone was home, and better yet, they were outside. As I rounded the corner, I saw him. A giant of a man, worn jeans hanging low on his hips and flannel shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows. The shirt itself was unbuttoned, and I caught a glimpse of rippling abs as he swung the axe again.

“Uh, excuse me, Mr.…”

He looked like a Blaze or a Huck or a Sawyer.

“The name’s Flint.” He tipped an imaginary hat. “What’s a pretty lady like you doing out here alone?”

“Twisting my ankle.” It was swelling now, the bump of the bone barely visible beneath taut skin. “I tripped. I don’t suppose you could drive me to my car? I’d be happy to pay you for your time.”

“Ain’t got no vehicle, darlin’. I come out here to get away from the modern world, not to live with a reminder of it right outside the window. But I can carry you back to your car.”

“Carry me? But I parked miles away.”

That seemed to amuse him.

“You think I’m not strong enough?”

“No, I—” Before I could utter another word, he swung me up into bulging arms as thick as the logs he’d been chopping. The movement was effortless. He could have been picking up a glass of whisky or a bottle of beard oil or a book on how to survive in the wilderness.

“What’s your name, darlin’?” He used his spare hand to tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear, and—

Wait, wait, wait… His spare hand? Did he have three of the damn things? Okay, so he could have tossed the heroine over his shoulder the way a fireman did, but then her head would have been behind him, not to mention the fact that it was decidedly unromantic. And I was a romance writer. There would be no freaking shoulder tossing, only sexy times, drama, and happily ever afters.

In the real world of Lauren Rossi, I’d only ticked two of those three items off the list. Over the past year, I’d seen drama galore and made more mistakes with men than I cared to count in search of that mythical beast: the fairy-tale ending. So far, my love life had been more of a tragedy than a romcom.

Over at the counter, Macie, the barista, held up the lumberjack’s drink. Or rather, the guy I thought looked like a lumberjack.

“Chad? Your coffee’s ready. Latte with”—she checked the order—“soy milk, three pumps of sugar-free vanilla syrup, double non-dairy whip, and caramel drizzle.”

Chad? Soy milk? Way to ruin a fantasy, lady.

And what kind of dumbass would be running through a forest alone if her sister had recently been murdered by a serial killer?

Did raptors even have yellow eyes?

I dropped my pen and sighed. The words just weren’t flowing at the moment, not even in my pretty Moleskine notebook. I had approximately seventy-three notebooks sitting in a cupboard at home, most deemed too nice to actually write in, but recently, I’d begun using them—ruining them—out of desperation.

“Hey, Lauren,” Macie called. I spent so much of my time at Café au LA that we were on first-name terms now. “You want a panini? Or a salad?”

“Do you have the beetroot-and-quinoa salad?” I asked. “Just kidding. It’s definitely a carbs day. Can I get a chipotle chicken grilled cheese?”

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