She turned her face into his chest and rested there a minute. Trace closed his eyes and laid his lips against her hair, kissing her head, breathing deep the soft floral scent of her shampoo. She awed him in so many ways he couldn’t even describe half of them. And the guilt he felt over JT and the trouble he’d brought her at the most stressful time of her opening ate at him now.
Avery finally heaved another sigh, then turned her face up to his. And God, she looked exhausted. Beautiful and real and tough and young and so damn exhausted. He wished he could do more for her.
“Are you up for a hot shower?” she asked. “I couldn’t sleep right now even if I do need it. What I really want is the feel of your body against mine. That is about the only thing that’s going to distract me from the stress right now.”
He smiled and thumbed away the wet path on one cheek. “I am at your service.”
SEVENTEEN
Even with Trace lying close beside Avery in her bed, one heavily muscled leg over hers, his tanned arm across her hips, and his dark head on her white pillow, she couldn’t relax enough to fall asleep.
Her gaze blurred over the worksheets open on her laptop, and she pressed her eyes closed, rubbed at them, then refocused on the screen. She had to squint, partially because of her dim light drifting in from the bathroom, and partially because fatigue kept messing with her vision. When her anxiety started to spiral to a peak, Avery only needed to look over at him and watch his slow, deep, even breaths for a few moments before she magically settled.
She reached over, ran her fingers through his thick black hair, and murmured, “If only I could bottle you.”
He stirred, snuggled closer, tightened the arm at her hips, and settled again. Warmth suffused Avery’s heart, and those damned tears stung her eyes again. She’d gone years without crying. Years living more or less numb. She hadn’t realized how numb until she’d gotten here and old friends and estranged family refilled her life with warmth and love, acceptance and happiness.
But Trace . . . whatever had formed between her and Trace was even deeper. Something altogether different. Every moment they spent together seemed to intensify whatever this was between them. Tonight they’d showered and kissed and touched but hadn’t made love. Trace knew she was stressed and preoccupied; Avery knew he was sore from working on the roof. So they’d taken turns massaging away each other’s tangles and knots, with a lot of thoughtful silence and a few short discussions on her next steps as she jotted notes and framed up the next two weeks of her chaotic life.
It was one of the most enjoyable, most comforting evenings she’d had in years.
Now he was lost to sleep, and she was once again drowning in angst.
“You can totally do this. You have your entire family behind you. I’m behind you. Even if the unforeseen happens, none of us are going to let you tank. But most importantly, you won’t let yourself tank, Avery.”
His faith in her made Avery smile. Regardless of whether or not the faith was warranted, he was right about having her family behind her. And it felt pretty good to hear that he was behind her, too.
Avery drew in a slow breath and released it on a sigh. Scooting lower in bed, she set her lists and outlines aside, snuggled even closer to Trace, and closed her eyes. There in the dark, with Trace’s heartbeat against her side, Avery put together a list of action items in her head, “to-dos” for the next two weeks to support her grand opening.
As she sank deeper toward unconsciousness, something called Avery back to the surface. Woozy, she opened her eyes, focused on the ceiling, and took in her surroundings. Nothing had changed. Trace still slept soundly beside her. She hadn’t even kicked the papers to the floor. But something . . .
A sound pulled her gaze left, to the window overlooking the side of the building. A shuffle? A scrape? She wasn’t sure. Vague, uneasy sensations forced her mind to focus. She pushed herself up on her elbows and listened harder. An engine. A car engine. But her Jeep and Trace’s truck were parked out front.
No, Trace’s truck wasn’t here.
The moving van.
Alarm burst in her belly and radiated outward. “Trace. Wake up.” She pushed his arm off her along with the covers and rushed to the window. The truck was still dark, but it was moving, sliding slowly out of its parking spot, the gravel crunching under the tires. “Oh my God, Trace.”
He was already at her side, and he slammed his hand against the window. “No! Motherfucking sonofabitch!”
He spun and grabbed his jeans from the floor. Jerking them on, he ran for the door.
“Trace?”
He ran down the stairs, yelling, “Where are your keys?”
“What? Why?” Avery stood at the top of the stairs, confused, scared. “What are you going to—?”
“You fucker,” he yelled toward the parking lot, then pivoted, and the glare he shot back up at her stabbed like an ice pick in her gut. “Where are your keys?”
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“O-on the counter.”
She hurried toward him in nothing but his T-shirt in time to watch the truck speed down the driveway, still no lights on. Panic skittered through her body, tying icy knots in its wake.
“Trace, what? I’ll call the police.” She turned toward the stairs and her cell, where she’d left it on the bed, but kept watching him over her shoulder. “Don’t go, Trace. I’ll call nine-one-one. Let the police handle it.”