Torin (Hope City #9) - Maryann Jordan Page 0,23

McBride and King families happily ensconced in this area of Hope City.

A movement at the end of the street caught his attention, and a wide smile spread over his face as he watched Erin running toward him. Long, tanned legs in running shorts. A racer-back tank top that held her breasts in place as she ran. Her dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail swinging behind her. Her cheeks were rosy with the early morning chill and the blood pumping through her body.

Everything about her called to him, and there was no denying he wanted more of Erin. More of her thoughts, more of her plans, more of her time.

“Hey!” she greeted, her smile just as wide as the one he sported.

“Hey, back.” He turned, and they ran side by side along the street. “Thanks for running with me today.”

“I was really looking forward to it,” she said. “I’ve missed the early morning runs.”

“I thought we could run from here toward downtown. That would take us along part of the actual racecourse. We’ll be close to my place and I can drive you back home.” She didn’t respond, and he glanced to the side to see what her reaction was, pleased to discover a smile still playing about her lips. They continued to jog along the neighborhood streets. “This is a nice area to live in.”

“It’s where I’ve lived my whole life, except when I was in the Army. My parents moved into the house when Sean was just a toddler and Mom was pregnant with Kyle.”

“I understand the Kings lived next door.”

She laughed. “Mr. and Mrs. King still do. They moved in right after my parents did. Two big houses with connecting back yards and eleven kids between us.”

He chuckled and shook his head. “That’s hard to imagine. For me, it was just my sister, Maeve. Although we grew up in a neighborhood, it was more on the west side of Hope City. At least, that’s where we lived until we had to move in with Grandma and Gramps.”

She twisted her head and looked up at him, her brow furrowed, but didn’t ask for clarification. He’d grown to know enough about Erin to realize that if there was something he wanted to share, she would let him tell it in his own time. She didn’t poke or prod; not because she wasn’t interested, but she seemed to want to allow the other person to determine what they wanted to say and when. With her blue-eyed gaze on him, he found he wanted her to know everything.

“Our parents died when we were younger. My mom had breast cancer and my dad only outlived her by a year before he had a massive heart attack. I was thirteen and Maeve was twelve. We’d always been close to my grandparents, and they immediately took us in. They had a nice house that wasn’t too far from where our home had been. I remember overhearing them discussing whether they should move into our parents' home so that we have everything familiar or if it would be better for us to move in with them.” He remained silent for a moment, memories flooding his mind. “Funny, I haven’t thought of that in a long time. I’m not sure why they made the decision, but they sold my parents' house and we moved into theirs. Honestly, I think it was the right thing to do. Both parents had died at home, and I think there was a sadness that we needed to move away from. You never forget someone you love who has died, but staying stuck in the past doesn’t allow you to move forward, which I figure is what they’d want us to do anyway.”

Erin inhaled quickly, the sound reaching his ears, and he looked down to see her staring up at him, unknown emotions swirling behind her blue eyes. “Oh, Torin, I’m so sorry.”

She finally turned to look ahead, but her hand moved out and landed on his arm, stilling the pumping motion as he ran. Not moving his arm while he ran felt awkward, but the touch of her fingers on his skin felt so right.

“How tragic,” she whispered, the words almost lost underneath the pounding of their footsteps.

Over the years, he’d told a few people about his parents’ deaths when the situation called for it. Some reacted with embarrassment, not knowing what to say. Others reacted with an uncomfortable silence. Some offered platitudes of God never giving us more