After dinner, they walked along the main road. The sun was setting, creating sprawls of color across the sky. There was something magical in the air, something soft and welcoming. For the first time since Abigail had left her home, her body relaxed, leaning into Chris as they walked back toward Hawk Automotive.
Kissing him in the infirmary was probably a mistake, but she hadn’t stopped thinking about it since. He nuzzled his cheek against the top of her head as they walked. Like they were just an ordinary couple. No doubt, this couldn’t last, whatever this was. But walking like this, in the sunset of a Texas summer day, she was content to lose herself in the moment.
“What’s going through that head of yours?” he murmured against her hair.
She glanced up at him, still leaning into him. “A lot.”
“I bet,” he said.
“Mostly, I’m worried. My—Daniel Lewis has long reaching arms and heavy pockets. There’s an entire town here that could report me to him.”
“People here… They look out for each other,” he said, pausing frequently as he chose his words. Abigail didn’t think Chris ever did anything without considering every variable. She didn’t think he even knew he did it. It was ingrained in him, as perfectly as being a warrior was ingrained in him. It was woven so deep into his soul, there was no other way he could choose to be. “I’ve lived here two years and I have yet to see the bleakness I saw out in the world. This town is in its own little bubble, and people here are content to stay within it.”
“And you?”
A faint smile crossed his lips as they reached the door to Hawk Automotive. “I’m content to protect that bubble.” He pulled open the door, his eyes casing around their surroundings as he pushed her gently through the door.
The darkness in the garage was broken only by tendrils of sunlight through the blinds covering the windows, which were coated with a layer of black dust and grime. It reminded her a little of Chris himself. Something that had purpose, but hadn’t been used to its full purpose, and left to gather dust. Chris’s entire being thrived on protecting others, on saving them from threats of which they couldn’t free themselves.
She didn’t understand why she knew these things about him. She could count the number of times she’d seen him in her life on one hand, but somehow, deep inside her, she understood what made him tick, felt the pulse of life that stirred inside him. It was weak and lonely, but it was there.
He took her through the garage and into a small hallway on the other side. Their feet echoed through it until they reached the back door. He keyed in a six digit code and they walked through the door.
On the other side, an older apartment building stood, two stories tall. Four brown doors, two on each floor stood out proudly from the faded blue and gray paints. Even those paints chipped away, revealing the oranges and browns of a different time.
“What is this place?”
He brought her to one of the bottom floor doors and paused. “I live here.”
“It’s charming, but what exactly were you hoping dinner would bring?” Abigail asked slowly, a smile spreading across her face. God help her, his face turned pink.
“I didn’t—” he frowned. “I figured you would be more comfortable here than in a bed in the infirmary downstairs.” He almost looked offended. “That’s all.”
She giggled.
He shot her a wounded look. He unlocked the door and pushed it open.
The curiosity got the better of her. She slid her hand along the door, pushing it open further as she entered. The door opened immediately into the living area. It was more spartan than she’d expected, and noticeably more upkept than the outside of the building.
Light chestnut flooring stretched out beneath her feet, her footsteps loud in her ears as she walked into the room. There was a light blue couch against the back wall, across from a small television. No fireplace, but there were two twin towers of bookshelves that stretched up to the ceiling between windows. No curtains. No area rug. No pictures. Nothing to create a personal touch.
She glanced back at him, realizing he was waiting for her reaction. Why would he care what she thought of his place? Before she’d landed on the side of the road, yesterday, she was nowhere in his life.
“I like it,” she whispered. “It’s you.” She inhaled deeply as she turned to face him. “It even has your scent.”
“Is that a good thing?” he asked.
She nodded, wanting so much to run her hands over his hard chest. There wasn’t one ounce of fat on the man. He was all bone and rock hard muscle. No soft edges. No unnecessary flesh. Like where he lived. But what really got her was the way his lips split into a wide grin, like he was actually happy that she liked it.
He led her through the living room, down the small hallway to another door. He hesitated at the doorknob, then turned it lightly and stepped back. She glanced at him, curiously, as she stepped forward.
The spicy scent of him was stronger in this room. A large bed with no headboard or footboard centered the room. An old thin quilt covered the mattress, smoothed so well not even a wrinkle broke the surface of the bed. There was a laundry hamper in the corner, nearly empty, and a dresser completely bare of anything on its surface except a hairbrush.
On the nightstand by the bed, a small tablet lay plugged into a cable that wrapped around to the back of the nightstand. Next to it, a desk lamp, aimed at the bed, and a picture frame faced the pillows.
This was where he lived. He spent time in the living area, sure, but this was where he really spent his time. This was his sanctuary. She stepped into the room, almost afraid to touch anything in the perfection of the room.
“You’re very quiet,” he said.
She stopped by the bed, her eyes focused on the picture frame as she picked it up. The Chris Hardy she remembered from five years ago stared back at her, a wide smile she’d never seen on him before as the picture Chris slung his arm around another man with dark hair and icy blue eyes. His other arm hugged a petite blonde woman with identical eyes to his, but instead of the oceanic storm that she saw in his eyes, mischievous flames danced within them. A sister, maybe? Who was the man?
“That’s my sister and my best friend… I guess he’s her fiancé now.”
Had she asked that out loud?
She set the picture down carefully and sunk onto the bed. It wasn’t soft or fluffy, but it wasn’t hard and unforgiving either. Yet another thing that matched Chris so perfectly. “And you can’t see them either?”
He shook his head. “It’s for their own protection.”
“You haven’t explained that,” she said. “I mean, not really.”
He walked over to her, but he didn’t sit next to her. She tried to hide the disappointment inside her chest. “My team and I are called the Reapers. We’re an intelligence strike force. We don’t exist.”
She reached over and pinched his arm. “You seem like you exist to me.”
“My entire team is dead to the world. They all faked their deaths to protect their family and their friends, anyone that could be held as a liability to us.” His throat worked hard, up and down.
“You mentioned something like that. But you’re not dead to the rest of the world.”
“No.” He sighed and sunk onto the bed, his big shoulder bumping hers. “I guess I will be soon.” He cleared his throat, and something fled his expression, leaving a stoic mask behind. “I’m glad I met you before that happened.”
Warmth filled her heart, pumping it out with each beat, and calming the fear that she’d lived with since she’d escaped her father, and it only beat faster as his hand came up to her cheek, pulling her close to him.
She ran her fingers over his chest, her attention on where her fingers traveled. But it didn’t stop her fingers from shaking. He covered her hand with his, trapping it against his chest. Her eyes traveled back up to his, the storm raging inside them. “You’re playing with fire, Abigail.”
“I know,” she whispered, her eyes never leaving his. She wanted to feel the warmth he created inside her all the time. She never wanted him to let go of her hand. Beneath her palm, she felt the thud of his heart against his chest, the way it changed its pace with the rise and fall of his breath. “I feel your heartbeat. Right here. You can’t be dead.”
He closed his eyes, never moving his hand from hers. His heartbeat continued to thud against her palm, but it began to speed, with each breath it got faster and faster. She watched him, feeling the soft pound of his heart against her hand, and the warmth his touch pumped through her body.
Nothing in her life had ever felt like this. Nothing had ever made her want to press her body against his, to feel his arms closing around her.
She was acting like an idiot. She’d barely talked to the man, and she wanted to do things she’d only ever read about to him. And by the way he responded to her, the way his body tensed, he felt it too.
“Chris…” she whispered.
“Don’t do that,” he whispered back.
“What?”
“Say my name like that,” he replied, the hoarse whisper barely breaking the silence of the room. “I’m trying so hard. You deserve my respect and my protection. Nothing less.”
“What if I’m just curious?”
He shook his head, his eyes still shut. His fingers closed around her hand. She could still feel his warmth, but her contact with his heart stopped. “It’s dangerous.”
She pulled her hand out of his, shivering as the cooler air bit into her fingers and she lost the warmth of him. He opened his eyes, that ocean storming into a hurricane. “Maybe you’re right.”
That storm bled desire through his gaze, but she couldn’t take any more of it. The intensity of it, the sheer potency with which he regarded her sent trembles through her.
“There’s t-shirts in the top drawer of the dresser over there. Boxers if you want. Might be more comfortable to sleep in.” He stood up and made his way to the door.
“You’re leaving?”
“I’ll be in the living room. Don’t worry. I’m not leaving.”
Somehow that didn’t seem so reassuring.