“It’s Steven,” her dad had said softly, reaching out to her.
Jenny had stared at her father’s outstretched hands, shaking her head, refusing to hear what he was saying. She backed away from his embrace, blocked out his words . . . her mother’s cries. She felt frozen as if she were in some horrible nightmare and couldn’t wake up. Then the dam burst, and she’d turned, started to run back to her car. “We need to go. Tell me which hospital.”
Her mom’s sobs had grown louder.
Her dad reached out, stopped her. Gathered her in his strong embrace. “Honey, he didn’t make it. Steven’s gone.”
She didn’t remember much after that. She didn’t remember collapsing or her dad carrying her to the couch or her parents trying to console her. Later, she’d been told all of those things. What little she did remember were words like “drunk driver” and “he didn’t suffer.” And she remembered the horrific truth she’d learned that night: there were degrees of grief. Some sorrows could be compartmentalized, tucked into a corner of your heart where, while they still made you ache and pray for the time Before, you could go on. You were still whole. But other griefs destroyed you. Left you a hollowed shell of your former self. Before that night, Jenny had had everything. On nights when the pain became more than she could bear, she told herself she’d been lucky; some people went a lifetime without knowing the kind of happiness she had had. And some nights she almost believed it.
It wasn’t until days later that she found out why it had been her parents who had to deliver the devastating news. Steven’s driver’s license listed his parents’ home address, not hers. The police had gone to their house to deliver the news. It had been Steven’s parents who had called Jenny’s mom and dad, not wanting her to be alone when she heard. While she and Steven had built a whole life together, they hadn’t been married. She was only a fiancée, not a wife. He had been hers, but only to a point.
The memories were overwhelming, and she leaned against the side of her house, tried to stop herself from shaking. She should leave. Get back in her car and drive away. But drive where? There was no outrunning bad news. She’d learned that the hardest way possible.
Drawing in a deep breath, she straightened and went to her front door. Opening it, she listened. At first, she heard nothing, and then a low murmuring came from the back of the house. Her stomach knotted, and fear coiled through her. Not again. Please. Not again.
The voices grew louder as she neared the kitchen, and a soft flickering of silvery light came into view. She went weak with relief.
The TV.
She’d forgotten to turn it off when she left. And apparently remembered the porch lights for once. She walked into the family room.
Someone rose from the chair. Someone she didn’t recognize.
Screaming, she threw everything she had in her hands at him before turning and running as fast as she could back down the hallway. All she wanted was to get out the front door.
She was almost there. A few more steps and—
A hand clamped onto her shoulder.
She screamed again and then her Oprah-ism kicked in. “I have a black belt in jujitsu.”
Was it go for the eyes first or the instep? Damn, she couldn’t remember.
“Right,” a horribly familiar voice said. “And I know ballet.”
Jenny turned, already knowing what she’d find. Six foot two of pure, undiluted sex appeal. A stranger would have been preferable. Her heart was beating as fast as a hummingbird’s. “I’m calling the police. Breaking into a house is against the law.”
Jared leaned against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest. His black T-shirt molded to hard, well-defined muscles. “I didn’t break anything. Ever hear of locking doors?”
Her heart was still racing. She didn’t want to examine too closely if it was because she was still scared or because she was standing so close to him. “No one on Hidden Lake locks their door.”
“Of course they don’t.”
“If you dislike being here so much, leave.”
“Gladly. Just as soon as you give me my—”
“If you say money one more time, I’ll scream.”
He grinned, a crooked smile that had probably conquered half of the female population. “You already have. Twice.”
“You are not funny.”
“Believe me, Cotton Tail, I’m not trying to be.”
She thought about reminding him—again—to stop calling her