It's Never too Late - By Tara Taylor Quinn Page 0,18
it odd that someone else chose to do so?
Not that she entertained personal thoughts all that much. Most of her quiet time was spent pondering other people’s problems. And more particularly, figuring out solutions to their problems.
Or holding internal debates with opposing counsel in an attempt to prepare herself for anything with which she might be presented.
“I heard you.”
“Excuse me?” Did he want her to believe he was a mind reader?
“You were in pain. Crying out. I heard you.”
The nightmare.
The screams. They’d been real?
She hadn’t had an episode like that in years. Not since she was a kid.
“I fell asleep on the couch,” she said. “I must have been dreaming.”
“That was more than a dream. Care to talk about it?”
Dare she hope he’d believe that she didn’t remember? Did she really want to step so far into her alternate persona that lying became habit?
One of the reasons Addy spent so much time alone was because if she was in a situation where she couldn’t hold her tongue, she’d tell the truth even when it hurt. Her, or someone else. She didn’t like causing pain. But she disliked lying even more.
It made her a horrible lawyer. And a great one, too. She hadn’t lost a case. But she had turned down a number of them.
Mark touched her hair, ran his fingers down it to her shoulder and then stood back. “You’re still shaking.”
Staring at him, she nodded. He was so gentle. So...there.
“You should sit.”
What was it about this man that sparked her interest and felt safe at the same time? And what was wrong with her that she was open to either?
She sat.
So did he. And she didn’t tell him to leave.
“Maybe it would help if you talked about it.”
She shook her head. It wouldn’t. “I closed the window,” she said as the thought occurred to her.
She’d been on the phone with Will and needed to make certain she had complete privacy. Classes started the next day. It would be the last time she spoke directly with him until she turned in her report.
For all intents and purposes she was alone in Shelter Valley. She’d hung up the phone and remained sitting on the couch after the call. Preparing herself. Warding off the memories...
She’d fallen asleep.
“You want me to open the window?” Mark asked from outside her private hell. “Are you hot?”
“No. I mean, yes. I’d like the window open. But I can get it.” She stood. So did he. And she sat back down.
So unusual for her.
“The kitchen window, if you don’t mind,” she said.
“Of course, it opens to the backyard.”
It opened to the fountain.
She waited. Listening. And felt a lessening of the constriction in her chest when she heard the familiar tinkling. Water was right there. As always. She was in her own life. Her adult life. She was perfectly fine.
She didn’t have to listen for anyone. Didn’t need anyone to save her. Didn’t need anyone, period.
Mark sat down.
Nonnie had told her he’d pulled a man from an explosion.
She shuddered.
“Tell me about it.”
She looked him over—six feet of muscled, gorgeous male, acting as if he had all the time in the world. For her.
A man who cared for his grandmother when a more logical choice would have been to put her in an assisted-living facility.
“I don’t know your last name.”
“It’s Heber.”
“How old are you?”
“Thirty.”
“I’m thirty-one.”
He shrugged and watched her as though waiting for more.
“Do have them often?”
“What?”
“The nightmares.”
“No,” she assured him quickly, in case he was worried that hearing her “crying out” as he’d put it, would be a regular occurrence. “Not since I was a kid.”
“A young kid or a teenage kid?”
The question was innocuous. His presence oddly calming. “Teenage.”
“Something happened?”
“Yeah.”
She didn’t offer more. He didn’t ask.
He’d pulled a man out of an explosion. He knew about the heat...
“I was in a fire.”
His expression intensified, as if she’d hit a nerve. As if he knew...
“I was five,” she said, because it was the easiest part to tell.
“Were you burned?” He glanced from her face to her bare legs and arms.
“Some.” The final skin grafts she’d received when she was in high school had taken care of the worst of the scarring, smoothed all the edges. What was left, no one saw—not even her. “The worst damage was internal. Smoke inhalation.”
And psychological, if she wanted to believe the things the counselors had told her. Gran had insisted she talk to them, but she’d never felt the need.
Still didn’t.
She was like her mother. Strong. Determined. Positive.