trusting me.” He moved closer. “You can, you know.”
“I don’t think you’re a psychotic texter, if that’s what you mean.”
“It’s not what I mean and you know it.”
She nodded. A wave of fatigue struck her. She was tired. She’d been going nonstop for so long, days as packed as today, and the murky discomfort of those emails had always been at the back of her mind. Now the person sending them had stepped things up and she felt as though she needed a little break from it all. A chance to breathe and refocus, find her balance.
Of course, Adam knocked her off balance in a completely different way. But she did trust him. And she really didn’t want to go home to her apartment and wonder if some kook had cameras trained on her or something.
“Can you cook?” she asked.
“Depends. If you like spaghetti, bacon and eggs, or steak on the barbecue, then yes, I can cook. I also do great takeout.”
“All right.” She turned to him. “And thanks.”
“We’ll figure this out. You’re not alone. Come on.”
“But my car...”
“I’ll bring you back for it. I don’t want you driving out in it until I know more.”
Serena reminded herself that he was the cop. There was no point arguing with him about what he did best. She wasn’t stupid. She knew that the person sending her those threatening emails had taken a huge step today, letting her know he could see her. Assuming it was even a he. She knew nothing about this person and the feeling of helplessness was infuriating.
Adam drove a nondescript sedan that didn’t quite scream cop but strongly suggested civil servant. As they drove, he kept the conversation light. Told her a fairly amusing story about his last hockey practice. She felt herself relax a little and was grateful to him for this small respite.
When they reached his house, she was surprised and delighted to see an old-fashioned cottage on a large piece of property. The garden cried out for attention. She mentally painted in an assortment of flowers. Nothing too formal—it wouldn’t suit the cottage—but maybe a rosebush in that corner and some wildflowers in the meadow. She could see where a vegetable garden had once grown and it was easy to picture it bursting with fresh herbs and a crop of homegrown veggies. Five or six apple and cherry trees bravely hung on. She wondered idly if they could be saved.
“What a great place,” she said.
“Thanks. I bought it last year. It’s a work in progress.”
The driveway was new and smooth as he pulled in and parked near the front entrance. Two steps led up to a freshly painted white porch with a purple clematis vine curling around the wooden pillars and overhang. If it were hers, she’d put window boxes under the multipaned windows on either side of the porch.
“Come on in,” he said, unlocking the blue front door, which was also freshly painted.
“Thanks.”
She stopped inside to look around.
“Like I said, a work in progress.”
“With so much potential.”
She loved it immediately. The old-fashioned kitchen with its cheerfully painted yellow cupboards, the scarred wooden counters. The living area featured heavy-beamed ceilings painted white to match the walls. The floors gleamed with history. “I love the floor,” she said, bending to get a better view. “Original?”
“Oh, yeah. Fir. I refinished them. It’s my most recent project.”
She could see the scars and pits that decades of footsteps and items dropped and dragged had left there. She loved that he hadn’t replaced them with brand-new floors. Or torn out the kitchen to go with granite and stainless. He’d kept to the original idea of a cottage. Simple and functional. A river-rock fireplace in the main living room wall was already set; all that was left to do was light a match.
She liked the efficiency of her own gas fireplace, which flickered to life whenever she pushed a switch on the wall, and she enjoyed her sleek granite and stainless kitchen, so
“I don’t think you’re a psychotic texter, if that’s what you mean.”
“It’s not what I mean and you know it.”
She nodded. A wave of fatigue struck her. She was tired. She’d been going nonstop for so long, days as packed as today, and the murky discomfort of those emails had always been at the back of her mind. Now the person sending them had stepped things up and she felt as though she needed a little break from it all. A chance to breathe and refocus, find her balance.
Of course, Adam knocked her off balance in a completely different way. But she did trust him. And she really didn’t want to go home to her apartment and wonder if some kook had cameras trained on her or something.
“Can you cook?” she asked.
“Depends. If you like spaghetti, bacon and eggs, or steak on the barbecue, then yes, I can cook. I also do great takeout.”
“All right.” She turned to him. “And thanks.”
“We’ll figure this out. You’re not alone. Come on.”
“But my car...”
“I’ll bring you back for it. I don’t want you driving out in it until I know more.”
Serena reminded herself that he was the cop. There was no point arguing with him about what he did best. She wasn’t stupid. She knew that the person sending her those threatening emails had taken a huge step today, letting her know he could see her. Assuming it was even a he. She knew nothing about this person and the feeling of helplessness was infuriating.
Adam drove a nondescript sedan that didn’t quite scream cop but strongly suggested civil servant. As they drove, he kept the conversation light. Told her a fairly amusing story about his last hockey practice. She felt herself relax a little and was grateful to him for this small respite.
When they reached his house, she was surprised and delighted to see an old-fashioned cottage on a large piece of property. The garden cried out for attention. She mentally painted in an assortment of flowers. Nothing too formal—it wouldn’t suit the cottage—but maybe a rosebush in that corner and some wildflowers in the meadow. She could see where a vegetable garden had once grown and it was easy to picture it bursting with fresh herbs and a crop of homegrown veggies. Five or six apple and cherry trees bravely hung on. She wondered idly if they could be saved.
“What a great place,” she said.
“Thanks. I bought it last year. It’s a work in progress.”
The driveway was new and smooth as he pulled in and parked near the front entrance. Two steps led up to a freshly painted white porch with a purple clematis vine curling around the wooden pillars and overhang. If it were hers, she’d put window boxes under the multipaned windows on either side of the porch.
“Come on in,” he said, unlocking the blue front door, which was also freshly painted.
“Thanks.”
She stopped inside to look around.
“Like I said, a work in progress.”
“With so much potential.”
She loved it immediately. The old-fashioned kitchen with its cheerfully painted yellow cupboards, the scarred wooden counters. The living area featured heavy-beamed ceilings painted white to match the walls. The floors gleamed with history. “I love the floor,” she said, bending to get a better view. “Original?”
“Oh, yeah. Fir. I refinished them. It’s my most recent project.”
She could see the scars and pits that decades of footsteps and items dropped and dragged had left there. She loved that he hadn’t replaced them with brand-new floors. Or torn out the kitchen to go with granite and stainless. He’d kept to the original idea of a cottage. Simple and functional. A river-rock fireplace in the main living room wall was already set; all that was left to do was light a match.
She liked the efficiency of her own gas fireplace, which flickered to life whenever she pushed a switch on the wall, and she enjoyed her sleek granite and stainless kitchen, so
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