Page 128 of One More Chance

“Do you like ice cream?” I ask, mostly to see if she’ll respond.

She doesn’t look at me. Her focus is strictly on Butterscotch, but I have a feeling she’s very aware of every move I make, no matter how small. “It’s too cold for ice cream.”

A low laugh rumbles in my chest. “You’re definitely not from around here. For locals like me, it’s never too cold for ice cream.” I can’t imagine her thin sweater is doing much to keep her warm. I shrug off my jacket and hold it out to her. “You look cold. Put this on.”

Her gaze flicks up for a fraction of a second, and that’s all it takes for me to become mesmerized by the honey brown of her eyes. Her gaze returns to my super content, tail-wagging dog. She keeps petting him, not missing a beat. “I don’t need your coat. And yes, I like ice cream.”

I let my arm fall to my side, wanting her to look at me again. “Do you have a favorite flavor of ice cream?”

“Does it matter if I do or not?” she says, her words soft, almost thoughtful.

“Not really. I just want to talk to you. Maybe get to know you a little better.”

She straightens. “Mango. My favorite flavor is mango. And there’s nothing else to know about me.” Her tight, back-off tone is laced with another emotion. Pain? Sadness? Loneliness?

“Are you okay?” There’s something about her that sets off a warning in my gut and makes it hard to walk away.

“I’m fine.” She hugs herself like she’s trying to keep her pieces together, to shield herself.

The unease in my gut flares. She’s so distant, she’s acting like my best friend Colton and my brother when they were battling PTSD.

That doesn’t mean she’s got the same thing.

Shit, what the hell happened to her? What’s her story?

“You do realize that when a woman says she’s fine, it usually means she isn’t?”

“And sometimes it means exactly that. She’s fine. Good. Happy.” She smiles as if to make a point, but the scar prevents the smile from fully forming.

The smile falls away. She grabs her shoes and runs toward her bike. Her bare feet sink into the loose sand, making her movements awkward, like she’s limping.

Or in pain.

She has barely covered several yards before she stops and walks the rest of the way to her bike. She pulls on her shoes, mounts the bike, and pedals away.

I walk along the beach and let my thoughts wander to the conversation from this afternoon while I was volunteering at the Veterans Center. About organizing a fundraiser to help the veterans and first responders with PTSD and their families. About how Anne Carstairs might have finally found a renter for her great aunt’s house. The house I wanted to flip.

But my mind keeps drifting to the woman on the beach. And her eyes. Who the hell is she? And what’s she doing in Maple Ridge?

And what are those honey-brown eyes like when she’s actually happy?

I grab my phone from my back pocket and hit speed dial for Zara. Butterscotch trots alongside me.

She picks up on the second ring. “Hey, Troy.”

“Hey. I need your help with something…”

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