Текст книги "Hemlock Veils"

Автор книги: Jennie Davenport

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

He crouched on the ground above Brian and grabbed his collar with one fist, lifting his head from the street. Where the sleeve of Mr. Clayton’s shirt was pushed up, tendons and muscles bulged in his forearm. “Look at me.”

Brian did, removing his hand from his bleeding nose.

“You leave Ms. Ashton out of your deranged, meaningless life. She’s better than the rest of the women who are stupid enough to fall for you.”

“No disrespect, Mr. Clayton,” Brian said, his voice wavering, “but you told me once that my personal life is my business.”

“That was before you started endangering someone else’s life. You and Ms. Eastwood, and all the others you bring into town, can do whatever the hell you want, as long as everyone consents and nobody gets hurt.” He pulled Brian’s head closer. “And Ms. Ashton did not consent, did she, Mr. Dane?”

Brian didn’t answer and Mr. Clayton shook him, making him wince. With eyes still fastened on Brian, he asked Elizabeth, “Did you consent, Ms. Ashton?”

“No,” she managed between teeth and tight lips, her core heating with a balance of injustice, humiliation, and self-loathing. She would die before she would let herself get taken advantage of. She swore to God, never again.

“No, she didn’t,” Mr. Clayton said at Brian. “You’ve heard it from both of us, so you better learn how to recognize it. Because I promise, if you even look at her again the way you’ve been looking at her…” He trailed off, leaving a note of expectation hanging in the air.

“I—I’ll go to prison,” Brian answered for him.

“That’s right. And I’m not talking about the jailhouse here, Mr. Dane. I’ll have you ejected from town and thrown into a real prison, where you’ll suffer like you deserve.” He ground his teeth, making his wet temples pulsate. “Do you believe me?”

“Yes, Mr. Clayton,” Brian said, flinching when Mr. Clayton again brought his head closer. “I believe you.”

Mr. Clayton studied him before throwing him back to the ground and standing. It looked as though he was about to kick him, but then restrained himself. “Go,” he said. “And you are never to set foot on my street again, you understand me? Ever, night or day.”

Brian stood with difficulty, and the movement spurred the chattering of Elizabeth’s teeth. Her limbs trembled with heat. It rolled, expanded—numbing her fingers—and vile thoughts began entering her mind, covering her like a dark blanket. Thoughts of retribution and revenge, and worse: fear. As Brian began to stiffly stumble away, Mr. Clayton called to him, “And Mr. Dane?” Brian turned, just barely—not daring to glance at Elizabeth who sat like a coward against her tire. “Remember what I said. You will suffer.”

Brian nodded glumly, then limped away. After he’d rounded the bend, the broken glass from his bottle drew her attention. Her chest heaved as she studied the way it littered the street, glistening. Every surrounding noise faded into the background while her head drowned in the heat. The heat climaxed, turning her body into an oven and cooking her from the inside, burning away all reason. Before she knew it she was on her feet, clutching the largest piece of glass, every ounce of that dreadful fear taking over. It coursed through her blood rapidly, leaving her with the most savage urge to survive. With a hoarse scream that came from nowhere and deep in her gut at the same time, she threw the glass in the direction Brian had gone, wishing he was still there to catch the sharp edge, and hating herself for being too frightened to do it when he had still been here.

It clattered on the street a distance away and she bent again, her fingers beyond feeling as she grabbed the next largest piece, a jagged triangle with a deadly tip. It took her mind over, joining the savage fear, and made her breaths frantic. Her mind drifted to thoughts of chasing after him, making her adrenaline pump. Surely, with such a weapon she could gain the upper hand.

Before she could engage the idea, a firm, warm grasp surrounded her wrist and she jerked, jumping at the sight of Mr. Clayton so close to her. She backed up, her heart speeding, and tried freeing her wrist; but he held on, his eyes steady on hers, and shook his head. A warning. It was then she remembered he wasn’t the enemy. He had saved her from the enemy, because she’d been too weak to save herself.

A sharp pain radiated from her thumb and she looked down to find her fingers clasped so tightly around the glass that it had drawn blood. Mr. Clayton’s eyes shifted to it before fixing firmly back on hers. Silently, he held out his other hand, demanding the weapon.

Reluctantly, she dropped it into his hand. An exhalation escaped her, releasing all the energy adrenaline had stolen from her body, and her knees nearly buckled. Shame filled her to the tips of her ears, and she attempted to make her breaths less animalistic as she hesitantly met Mr. Clayton’s eyes.

But they didn’t speak judgment, or even pity. His expression was unreadable and set in stone, but his eyes smoldered in the way they did every once in a while, when it seemed an invisible guard had been dropped. Only now, they radiated with some internal glow, coming from the inside out and making his irises appear more like melting caramel. Somehow, this man who lived a life of privilege and who demanded strict obedience understood the monster inside her. Somehow, condemnation was absent from his stare.

He released her wrist, probably when he saw the forfeit in her eyes. As though he fought his own battle inside, his brow creased. She braced herself against the car, a tingling sensation beginning to work itself into her limbs, and she ignored the pain in her back and thumb as she closed her jacket over herself.

She passed him a silent nod, since her tongue couldn’t conjure words, and he nodded in return. He began to leave, but paused. “Ms. Ashton, I’ll be over to repair your pipe after I return from Portland early this evening.” He seemed to hesitate, as though he wanted to say something else, but then turned away.

She had no response as she watched him leave, punch a code into his lavish gate, and then disappear within it. When he was out of sight, she released a deep sigh and sank into her hands, leaning against her now dented car before sinking to the ground. Though she didn’t cry, her chest shook. Regardless of why Mr. Clayton had come to her rescue, and regardless of her shame, she was indebted to him, not just for saving her life but for preventing her from acting on the darkest impulse she’d ever had. She owed Mr. Clayton everything.

She forced her limbs steady and picked herself up, afterward picking up her bag and keys. Her umbrella seemed too far away, but she picked that up too, even though she now found it useless. She shivered at the rivers flowing down her hair and into her clothing, and winced at the pain in her spine that bit from deep within when she bent over.

No matter her pain, however, Brian’s was probably ten times worse, judging from the way the entire car had rocked when he’d hit it, one whole side nearly lifting from the ground. And for the first time that morning, satisfaction filled her being.

She entered her car and closed the door, leaving her in silence so still her ears rang, and as she started the engine, she attempted to analyze her astonishing rescue. Mr. Clayton had appeared from nowhere. Where had he come from? If he’d come from his gate, she and Brian would have heard or seen it. Besides, the gate had been closed just now when Mr. Clayton had approached it. Wherever he’d come from, he hadn’t taken the time to fully dress, so he wouldn’t have taken time to close the gate. That meant he hadn’t come from his house. And aside from the forest, there was nowhere else…

Her thoughts stopped short and she lifted her head, remembering every exchange between her and Mr. Clayton from the moment they’d met. The memories took her breath away as they played on repeat, replacing the sight of steering wheel and drowning windshield. His brown eyes, the way he didn’t want her here, the way her fearlessness enraged him. His disappearance at night. And he knew about her pipes, like he’d been listening to her and Brian’s conversation just before Brian had attacked her.

Oxygen came with difficulty.

Of course, he’d been listening, right from the Beast’s forest. His forest.

Chapter 15

Plenty of daylight remained when Henry and Arne returned to Hemlock Veils. Water still covered the town, even with the sun’s cameo appearance, and the Maybach’s tires splashed through puddles. They passed Jean’s, with its windows dark and the sign flipped to Closed. He tried picturing Elizabeth’s first day of business. Had Brian been stupid enough to show up? With everything in him, Henry hoped he was smarter than that. Tension shot though his muscles at the thought of Brian and the way he’d displayed his true colors. Eustace used to say, years ago, that you could see the true character of a man through his drink. And Brian showed his that morning, ugly and despicable. It’d left Henry more enraged than he’d been in years, all Brian’s incessant pushing and touching.

Worse, he’d felt more protective of Elizabeth than he’d ever felt of anyone, or anything. Instead of wondering why, he’d simmered in rage, waiting for Brian to finally leave Elizabeth alone, like she’d insisted. But he hadn’t. And the sun had risen at just the right time, giving him only long enough to find his clothes and half-dress himself.

He’d wanted to do more than hit him. He wanted to do what he was sure Elizabeth had been contemplating. God knows Brian deserved worse. But Henry still considered himself, in most respects and at least in this form, a reputable human being.

He exhaled slowly, laying his head back. His mind replayed Elizabeth cowering then nearly losing it. In the beginning, all he’d wanted was to see her afraid, just to prove she was like the rest. A horrifying beast, capable of ripping her to shreds, and she wanted to befriend it. Then a coward of a man takes advantage, and her eyes widened with a fear he had begun to think she wasn’t capable of. And now the image of fear in her eyes haunted him.

It haunted him so much he almost wanted to take back their deal. She accepted him in his monstrous form. It was something he would never understand, yet he found himself yearning for that acceptance. Perhaps, if he could persuade her to go outside, he could determine why she understood him, why she wasn’t afraid, and even why he felt such an intense connection when meeting her eyes.

He hid that connection during the day, or tried to. It was becoming more difficult to be his false self with her, the self he’d taught himself to be: cold, distant, and pretentious. But letting his guard fall wasn’t an option, because of all the people he wanted to protect, Elizabeth topped the list. Recently, she was the only one on it.

This morning, when he’d interfered with Brian’s plan, Henry worried he may have dropped his guard too low to rebuild, but he’d already seemed to build it again when walking by Jean’s on the way to the diner, an hour later than normal. Through the glass door and windows, it appeared that Regina was the only customer. Elizabeth had been resting her elbows on the counter, smiling as they chatted over steaming coffee, and though she wore a happy face, the disappointment in her eyes was unmistakable. He’d wanted to come in, not just because he’d been craving her coffee, but because he’d been craving the sight of her, and in that specific moment, the sight of her smile. It announced she was whole, announced that Brian had lost.

Such a realization had reaffirmed his will to avoid her, however, and when she straightened, noticing him through the window, he’d simply kept walking.

When he entered the diner, all eyes fell upon him. It was annoying to the point of nausea, the way every man moved according to Henry’s will. It was supposed to be this way, the way he’d intended. But he was growing exhausted by it all. At least he no longer had to worry about Regina being one of them, since she’d already been converted to Team Elizabeth.

Upon realizing this, he had sighed and said, “Go,” and a few of them stood, while the rest appeared confused. “Ms. Ashton deserves your business, so go. I know you all want to.” Eustace looked at his cup of coffee with a sudden disgust, and he was the first to rise. He walked to the door with nothing but a respectful nod in Henry’s direction, and the rest followed. The only ones who stayed were Nicole and Brian. Brian eyed him warily, his split lip a most pleasing sight, and Nicole ran her fingers through his hair like he was some baby. Would she be so loving if she knew how he earned the wounds she was babying, or would Nicole only blame Elizabeth?

After a long look, Brian rose, but Henry said, “Not you.” Brian glared. Perhaps he was getting a backbone of his own as well.

“I was drunk, Mr. Clayton. I…it wasn’t me.”

Henry stepped closer. “On the contrary, Mr. Dane. I think it showed us exactly who you are.”

“What’s he talking about, Brian?” Nicole asked, eyeing the slice on his lip. “I thought this happened in Portland.”

Brian studied Henry a few seconds longer, then looked down. “Nothing, Nicki. I think I need to go home and sleep.” He left without a goodbye, leaving Henry and Nicole alone. It was awkward, but Henry reminded himself it was worth it, better than the alternative.

Now, as Arne pushed the button on the middle console and the gate opened ahead—the gate that would always bear the initials of his father—he mentally prepared himself to face Elizabeth. More importantly, facing her at the cottage. He wouldn’t have offered his help, had Brian been decent enough not to ask for sexual favors in exchange. Really, Henry had no choice.

They drove around the house and entered the garage, and as it closed behind them, leaving him and Arne in darkness, Arne said, “It’s just a pipe, Henry. Not a death sentence.”

Henry didn’t respond as he left the car, not waiting for Arne to let him out. Not that he ever did when it was just the two of them. Upstairs, in his loft of a bedroom—with a bed he hardly ever used—he changed into a white t-shirt and jeans. He found his old set of tools—the same he and his mother used when living in that very cottage—and added the repair sleeve he’d bought in Portland to the tool belt.

When he knocked on her door a few minutes later, he straightened his shoulders, attempting to make himself taller, more threatening. She was Ms. Ashton. Not Elizabeth, as he’d only recently begun to think of her.

She didn’t answer, and the part of him that allowed her to fuel his annoyance sparked. He ran a hand over his face, still not used to the whiskers he hadn’t shaved in three days. Here he was, offering his help, and she wasn’t even here. Her car sat on the street but that didn’t say much, given it was Elizabeth, and she liked to walk everywhere in town.

Then a thought struck him: she was Elizabeth, and it was sunny. He walked around the house, to the place he’d found her and Arne a few days before, the same place he used to find his mother whenever the sun had been shining.

Crouched on the porch, Elizabeth tinkered with a potted plant: a small, young azalea, only one pink flower in bloom. While one of her hands poked at the soil, the other—whose thumb wore a bandage—reached to her lower back and rubbed. From this angle, only part of her cringe was visible, but it was enough to fire up the same trigger from that morning, the one that felt like an explosion of heat had blown inside him. It was bad enough she already had to recover from the sore ribs he’d given her only days before, but this was unforgivable. And it also made him no better than Brian.

Her hair spiraled from her head in loose curls, some strands pinned away from her face. She wore a large sweater with sleeves pushed to her elbows, and surprisingly, he found her more attractive this way than he had in their meeting at the bakery, when she and her business attire were soaked through. Both the breeze and sun played with her hair, making him exhale a sigh—silently, since he wanted another moment to admire her before he had to play the enemy.

She straightened then, her back to him. It happened every time she sensed him watching at night, and even now he wondered how she knew he was there. She stood, not bothering to wipe her soil-stained fingers, and looked around her, her mannerisms hopeful as she glanced up to the suddenly darkening sky. But it was just deceiving cloud cover, and when she saw him she slumped. Was she hoping to see someone else? Perhaps the other form of himself?

“Mr. Clayton, you…startled me,” she excused with instantly pink cheeks, closing her sweater. He wished she hadn’t, since the shirt beneath was snug, flattering, and particularly low-cut. She also wore the same silver locket around her neck she always wore. The chain was long, allowing the oval-shaped pendant to rest low on the bare skin of her chest. He wondered what pictures it stored.

“They won’t survive in there,” he said, stepping closer.

Her brows pulled together.

“The azaleas.” Her eyes found the pot, basking in the sun. “That pot won’t allow the soil to drain well, and the sun will fry it. You’d have better luck over here,”—he pointed to the earthy ground below him, just beside the deck, where the overhang would provide sufficient shade all day long—“since the soil here is well drained. Azaleas thrive in the shade.”

She stared at him as though he was a stranger, and he reprimanded himself for saying too much. In and out, he had told himself before he came. Then she said, “I…didn’t know you were an expert on flowers.”

“Just rhododendrons.”

A trace of a smile. “I always pictured Arne doing the gardening.”

“We both do it.” He wanted to smile back, but instead looked away and shoved his hands into his pockets. “I don’t have much time, so—”

“Yes, of course. Come in.”

As he climbed the steps, he said, somewhat shamefully, “Ms. Ashton, about your car…”

She turned to him, raising a hand. “No, please. It’s fine, Mr. Clayton.”

“It’s not fine. I’ll pay for the repairs.” He scratched his head. “Not by Brian, of course, but somewhere in Government Camp maybe.”

She studied him.

“You’ll accept my offer, Ms. Ashton, no questions.”

She only nodded.

“And…” he began, taking a hesitant step. “You’re…Are you hurt?”

Again she studied him in a new light.

“Because if you are, I’d like to cover the medical exp—”

“No.” She scrunched her eyes and waved a hand, appearing annoyed. Perhaps humiliated. “There won’t be any medical expenses. I’m fine, just a little sore. It’ll go away.” She gave a half-smile, lifting her thumb. “And this didn’t need stitches.”

He nodded, and it seemed she couldn’t swallow as she looked to his feet. “I,” she began. “I wasn’t myself after…I mean, I’m sorry for…”

“For what? Wanting to defend yourself?”

“For being a monster. I’m not usually like that, not…like him.”

He ground his teeth, trying with all of him not to be offended. “You’re not a monster. And you could never be like it.”

“It?” After a perplexing moment, recognition relaxed her brow. “Oh. I’m referring to Brian, Mr. Clayton.”

He fumbled over his thoughts, foolishness leaving his face slightly warm. He’d never heard anyone claim another man was more of a monster than himself. “It’s…no matter,” he said, even though it did matter. Because seeing her “monster” left him strangely comforted. It left him strangely connected to her.

She hardly nodded before turning, apparently just as eager to move on. He followed her through her back door, his eyes taking an involuntary detour down the curves of her backside and hips, snug in her jeans. The heat had just begun to coil within his abdomen when a scent hit him like a wave—a joyous, overwhelming wave. The cottage smelled of baking, of the bakery, of his mother. It was the smell of summer afternoons and even most mornings. It was the smell of flour-dusted aprons and safe-havens. And now it would be the smell of Elizabeth.

She closed the door and his eyes adjusted to artificial light. It was clean and tidy, though she had too many belongings for such a small living space. All of it was mismatched, too, not the slightest rhyme or reason to it. It looked as though she’d collected random pieces over time, all with different meanings. But he liked it, liked the way it looked homey without looking like his old home. Here, he only saw Elizabeth. A massive bookshelf nearly reached the ceiling, and most of its occupants were cookbooks.

After a second of observance, he looked down and found her staring at him. For a brief moment, he stared back, noticing how the splash of afternoon sun through the kitchen window hit her cheekbones and elongated her eyelashes. She looked down quickly, her nose wrinkling. “Sorry,” she said, a hint of laughter in her voice. “I’m just adapting to the sight of Mr. Clayton in a t-shirt and jeans.” She met his eyes and moved her fingers over her chin, making him wonder if her skin was as soft as it appeared. “It looks good on you,” she added, referring to his newly acquired beard.

He cleared his throat and adjusted his weight, uncomfortable with the way they were getting too comfortable. But luckily, before he could dwell on the thought of how badly he wanted to kiss her, even just once, she said, “In the bathroom,” and left him alone. He followed but paused on his way, caught off guard by the book on the coffee table. Not just caught off guard; barreled over, really. The oval table it rested on was on its last leg and pushed closely to the fireplace, probably to allow for more walking room. The book he knew well lay open wide, the large pages parted at the spine. The words curse, and monster, and eternity screamed at him from the pages. She closed it in a hurry then pulled it from the table, cradling it to her chest before putting it on the bookshelf.

“Fairy tales, Ms. Ashton?”

“It was just something my father and I used to read. It was his book, actually.” Her smile said she was dwelling on a fond memory or two, and he dwelt on her smile, the way one side lifted slightly higher than the other. “Fairy tales and legends were his thing. They were our thing. I’ve never seen a grown man believe in things so impossible.”

“He actually believed them?”

“For a while I thought it was only to make me believe, but I realized before he died that he always had.” She paused, looking to the side. “He’s the reason I came here, to Oregon. He always talked about it, how magical it was.” Her eyes focused on his again. Clearly, if he wanted to shun her, the only way he would gain the proper courage would be to refrain from making eye contact with her. “It never made sense to me, believing the stories. From the time I was a young teen I always thought magic was something people created to cure a boring life.” Then, her eyes—the ones he couldn’t look away from—grew hesitant, perhaps even fearful. “To me, logic was…reality.”

He swallowed. “Was?”

“When I came to Hemlock, I couldn’t think of them as nonsense anymore.”

“They are nonsense.”

“Maybe some. But can you honestly tell me, Mr. Clayton, that some sort of magic doesn’t exist in this forest? You of all people should know it.”

He almost flinched. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“You’ve lived here much of your life. You live in the best part of the forest. And no matter how impossible it is to the rest of the world, a mysterious beast roams it. Surely you’ve thought—maybe as most in this town have—there might be something to these myths.”

He lifted a brow. “I hardly think a children’s book is the place to research our monster, Ms. Ashton. And I suggest you stop researching anyway, because you’ll get nowhere.”

She nodded, her eyes knowing, as usual. And how he wanted to be in her head, to see what she knew exactly. “It wasn’t research, Mr. Clayton. Just trying to refresh old memories.”

He would never tell her he owned the same book, practically had every word memorized—especially the third chapter in section three. Arne had found it online ten years ago, during Henry’s most desperate thirst for knowledge. It had opened his eyes to many things, and that was exactly why Elizabeth needed to keep believing it was nonsense.

He stepped around her and into the bathroom, hardly big enough for two. She squeezed in there with him anyway, the small space filling with their body heat. There, on the floor behind the tub, the pipe was separated at the joint. Wet towels were piled on the floor, and beneath the pipe was a bowl, collecting water that still dripped from the pipe. “I turned off the water cut-off valve last night, but it’s still leaking,” she said.

Removing the tools from around his waist, he lay on the floor, propped on his side, and edged his way behind the tub. He pulled the rubber repair sleeve from his tool belt and began fitting one of the pipe’s broken ends through, adjusting the sleeve around it. He did the same with the other end, fitting it into the other side of the sleeve, but only after a short battle between him and the pipe—where if not for his strength, he wouldn’t have been able to manipulate it to fit. Really, this whole house needed new pipes, but he reminded himself it wasn’t his house anymore.

With a restrained grunt, he rolled to his back and inched his way directly beneath. Water dripped in his face and he wiped it away. He reached for his screwdriver and screws; they were too far and his fingers scaled the tile, but before he could ask, she handed them to him. He couldn’t see her, but knew she watched him. And to his own dismay, he liked the way it felt.

Still wiping away the water that dripped in his face—trying to keep his face out of the way—he engaged four screws in the sleeve to keep it in place. After tightening them, he waited, waited for the dripping water. It didn’t come.

With another grunt, he maneuvered himself out and sat. A small towel waited for him, held in Elizabeth’s outstretched hand. He eyed her a moment and nodded as he took it, wiping his face, neck, and hair. She rubbed at the back of her own neck, looking to the side as though flustered. The slight blush in her cheeks left his own warm. “Mr. Clayton,” she said. “I can’t thank you enough—”

Holding up a hand, he stood, returning the towel to her. “Don’t thank me yet. I need to make sure it holds.”

He followed her to the skinny closet in her bedroom, the one holding the smallest water heater he’d ever seen. He tried not to look around the room, since even the idea of him being here felt strange. It was too informal for the formal relationship he wanted to keep. It was impossible, however, not to notice from the corner of his eye her unmade bed, sheets the color of red rose pedals.

There, behind the water heater—since she had no crawl space, cellar, or basement—was the water cut-off valve. He turned it back on, the handle moving with difficulty and even giving off protesting squeals.

Back in the bathroom, with his hand on the right-hand knob above the bathtub’s nozzle, he looked at her. “Ready?”

“Wait,” she said, shielding herself with a towel. From behind it: “Okay, go.”

He chuckled. With the slightest hesitation—and he would admit with the shielding of his other hand—he turned the cold water knob in a counter-clockwise direction. After a faint groan, it came blasting through the nozzle in the intended way. He lowered his hand, and she lowered her towel. He then turned on the left nozzle and let them both flow, the pressure strong. It wasn’t long before steam began to rise.

He turned them off, not bothering to hide his smile. “I think you’re safe.”

She draped the towel over the tub and with a smile of her own, left the bathroom. “I have something for you, Mr. Clayton,” he heard.

He sighed to himself, rising with reluctance. She was impossible.

When he met her in the kitchen, that same fear clouded her eyes. It wasn’t fear, though, he realized. Insecurity, perhaps? Hesitantly, she extended a plate, and atop it was a large mound of chocolate chip cookies. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten a cookie. The scent got him though, right in the hungry part of his gut: sweet, with just the right twinge of salty.

He lifted his hands, stepping back. “I can’t take these, Ms. Ashton.”

Sighing, she tucked her hair behind her ear. Her face managed to darken a shade within a second. She wouldn’t meet his eyes and her voice was slightly elevated, slightly emotional. “Please, take them. It’s the very least I owe you.”

“A simple thank you is enough.”

“No, it isn’t.” Now she met his eyes, her tone brusque. “I know I don’t have much to offer, Mr. Clayton, and frankly I feel a little foolish giving you something as silly as cookies, but it’s all I’ve got. This is all I’m good at. So…please just take them. I need you to.” She forced the plate into his hands. He had no choice but to hold it now, if he didn’t want it to fall to the floor. Her voice softened. “I’ve wanted to say thank you, but haven’t known how. Thank you for giving me a chance. Thank you for helping me fix a pipe that isn’t yours anymore. And thank you for sending the town my way this morning, whether they wanted to come or not.”

His eyes narrowed.

“They…told me they had your okay.”

He sighed. “Believe it or not, Ms. Ashton, I find the dependence as bothersome as you. And in their defense, they did want to come. They just needed a push.”

She smiled, even though he frowned. But her smile fell as she continued, “But mostly, thank you for this morning.” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Really. What you did…”

“It was nothing,” he said quickly, uncomfortably.

“It’s something. A big something that’s everything. And I’m…ill-equipped to repay you.”

He relaxed his shoulders. She was impossible. Every single thing about her was utterly likable, even the side of her she thought shameful. The truth was, Elizabeth Ashton didn’t have an unlikable trait buried anywhere inside her. She was what she presented herself to be. Her true colors were bravery and compassion and acceptance, and an unfathomable beauty from within.