Melinda Di Lorenzo - Last Chance Hero

Donovan stepped closer, near enough to touch her, and spoke in a low voice. “It looks good. But I still see a bit of a problem with the security of it, don’t you?”

She spun, then jumped back, knocking over the chair and smacking into the door. “How did you get in here?”

“C’mon, Jordynn. The layout of the house hasn’t changed. I came in through the bathroom.”

Her eyes flicked over his shoulder to the closet. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“And...now what?”

“Nothing. As long as you give me the phone.”

He saw her hand tighten on the device. Then she slipped it behind her back.

He raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

A surprising blush—delicate and lacy—crept up her face. “Did you think I’d just hand it over?”

“Well. I don’t remember you being particularly unreasonable.” He closed the gap between them in three easy steps.

“A lot can happen in ten years.”

He ignored the sting brought on by the comment. “The phone. Please.”

“No.”

“Giving it to me before the guy downstairs wakes up would be ideal.”

“Calling the police before he wakes up would be even better,” she retorted.

With a sigh, he reached around her to take it. She moved to sidestep the grab, but Donovan was quicker. He slammed his arms up to the wall, blocking her in.

“The phone,” he said again.

“The police.”

“Not happening.”

“If you think I’m going to keep your secret, you’ve got another think coming.”

“If you don’t keep it, everyone I’ve ever cared about—everyone you currently care about—will be in danger.”

“Let me guess. You want me to trust you about that, too.”

“Yes.”

She lifted her face and met his gaze with a challenging glare. “Is that your plan, then? Return from the dead, save my life, then just assume I’ll fall into place?”

“My plan is to get you out of here before it’s too late.”

“Too late for what, specifically?”

“Too late for us to get away from the guys who know now that I’m not dead. Who know you’re the only reason I’d expose myself. Jordynn. Give me the damned phone.” Donovan slid one of his hands to her back and found her wrist, intent on just taking the phone. But at the contact, a responding zap of heat slid to his palm. It flowed through his forearm and up again, settling in his chest. It expanded out, searing his heart and drawing full attention to how close together they stood. Just inches apart, in fact.

Donovan’s fingers were on the phone, its cool exterior a sharp contrast to the warmth everywhere else. But he couldn’t actually make himself take it. He couldn’t even move. A decade apart, and still her touch set him on fire.

He could tell she wasn’t immune to him, either. Her chest rose and fell a little quicker, and she sucked in the side of her mouth. Each a telltale sign Donovan knew well.

“How’s it working out for you?” she whispered.

He swallowed, unable to remember what they’d been talking about. “How’s what working out for me?”

“That plan of yours.”

“I’ve spent the last ten years without you, honey,” he said thickly. “Things have been hell for that long. So from here, things are looking pretty damned good.”

“What about it seems good? I’m not exactly cooperating with what you want to accomplish.”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t bite on the wicked line she was trying to feed him. She’d always been excellent at baiting him into an argument. Trounced him every time. So he just stared down at her face, and the longer he looked, the more every detail of it seemed important.

Her wide eyes, pupils expanded enough that they nearly blocked out the blue.

The blush, which had expanded even more, covering her cheeks and throat completely.

Her lips. Firm, and just the tiniest bit damp.

The tiny scar on her left eyebrow, new since the last time he saw her.

The last thing prompted Donovan to move. He lifted his other hand from the wall and reached out to touch the small indent. He ran his fingers over the mark, disliking it intensely. Not because it marred the dark red curve of her brow, but because he hadn’t been there to witness whatever caused it. Hadn’t been there to stop it.

“What happened here?” he asked.

“Why?” she breathed. “Does it bother you?”

“Only knowing that it probably hurt you.”

“It did.”

“Badly?”

“At first. But all wounds heal eventually.”

Donovan flinched. He knew without asking that her comment was really a dig. A metaphor.

But maybe it’s an opening, too.

“Do they all heal?” he asked.

He dragged his finger from the scar to her cheek, almost—but not quite—cupping it. He hated himself for wanting her to say yes—for wanting her to be willing to overlook the heartbreak he’d caused.

She didn’t resist the intimate touch as she answered. “If they don’t kill you. Definitely. The human body is resilient. But wounds leave scars, too. Like that one up there.”

“A reminder?” he asked.

“Or a warning to be more careful the next time.”

“Jordynn...”

His thumb slipped to her mouth. For a second, her eyes closed and her lips dropped open. Then she inhaled and leaned back, out of reach.

“Do you really want to know how I got the scar?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“I went on a date.”

Donovan was sure she’d said it to deliberately deflect the rising temperature between them. Or maybe just to hurt him. He wished he didn’t understand why she did it. The awareness acted like a bucket of icy water, dousing the desire that raged through him. Still. He had to pretend he didn’t care—because really, it wasn’t his right to care—as she met his eyes, clearly looking for a reaction.

He fought an urge to just slip his fingers between hers and pry the phone from her grip, thereby ending the conversation completely. Instead, he inhaled, then let the breath out carefully.

“A date?”

“Yes. The first one after you’d—After you were gone. You remember my friend Sasha?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Almost a year had gone by, and she thought it was time for me to start moving on. So she set me up with a friend of her cousin’s. The guy was just here on a visit. Short-term commitment, Sasha told me. No pressure, because he’d be gone in a week.”

Donovan pictured it. Pushy, logical Sasha, presenting a date as a reasonable argument. Jordynn unable to find a loophole to get her out of going.

“So you agreed,” he said softly.

“I did. He took me bowling. Then out for dinner. He was nice. Good-looking, too. And I was trying hard not to have fun. Searching for a reason not to like him. I couldn’t find one. At the end of the date, I realized I was being silly about the whole thing. There was no reason not to enjoy myself. So I decided to take a leap and have a good time. I let myself relax and laugh and eat a stupid dessert. When it was over, I was actually a bit sad. And relieved when—while we were sitting at the end of my driveway, in his car—he asked me out again. I said yes. And he kissed me, Dono. And it was fine. No fireworks or insanity like with you. But fine.” She paused to shrug. “Until a big black truck took a wrong turn and rear-ended us. Totaled the guy’s car. Smashed my head into the dashboard and split it open.”

A furious range of emotions tumbled through Donovan. Jealousy and self-loathing. Fierce regret and protectiveness. He reached up to stroke the scar again, but she shook her head, stopping him from succeeding.

“The worse part,” she said, “wasn’t that I took it as a sign that I wasn’t supposed to be having a good time, even though that’s what my mind had already concluded. Or that I was being punished for enjoying the date, even though I thought I was. It was knowing, at that moment, that I’d never be whole again. That some part of me would always tie everything back to the fact that you were dead.”