Until You (The Redemption, #1)(6)

Just as I hit my doorstep, I cringe. Crap. The truck with Redemption Falls Security on the side that drove up to the main house the other day . . . what if they installed security cameras on the house already?

If they have, then my new landlord will have recorded footage of me spying on him and his daughter.

Hell of a way to make a first impression, Tenny.

Or get yourself evicted.

No eviction. Please. Anything but that. Credit and background checks still give me pins and needles. And might always.

And I love it here. And not just meaning the town of Redemption Falls, but here, at the cottage. The peace and quiet allows me to work without interruption. It has meandering trails where I can take long walks when I need to clear my head. And I feel safe here when I never knew if I’d ever really feel that again.

So yes, the last thing I need to do is piss off my new landlord with my lease expiring in a few months. Finding a new place to live isn’t on my agenda for some time. It should be fine, Tenny.

I glance back toward the main house when I hear another clang from wood being dropped into the wheelbarrow. The visual of him working stays front and center.

He’s just a man, Tenny. Quit acting like you’ve never seen one before.

Two words: dry spell.

That’s it. That’s why I give one more glance over my shoulder, even though I know I can no longer see him.

Besides, he’s a dad, a husband—taken.

But as I open my front door and am greeted with a lift of Hani’s head in greeting, I know focusing on my thirst trap new landlord is way easier than falling back into the vortex of what-ifs that have been plaguing me recently.

What if Kaleo had turned out to be the man I thought he really was?

What if I had listened that night? Would I still be ignorantly blissful in our house on the rocky coast of Kapalua Bay? Would I still love the life I was living, not knowing the lie that it was?

My sigh mixes with Hani’s purring as he jumps up on my workspace and demands attention.

Those are a lot of what-ifs.

And I don’t deal in what-ifs anymore.

I can’t afford to.

My darkened computer screen calls to me. The story I’m editing even more so.

It’s no wonder I prefer dealing with fiction these days.





CHAPTER THREE


Tennyson




My hands tremble as I stare at the letter. My name and address in scribbled handwriting. The lack of a return address. The postage meter showing it was sent locally.

A personal letter.

But there’s no one who knows where I am to send one. No one who knows I’m even alive, unless . . .

Panic has me dropping the rest of the bills on the table and tearing into the envelope, my heart in my throat, and the acrid taste of fear on my tongue.

The chuckle I emit is part hysteria, part relief, when I pull the letter out, only to find it’s an invitation to help organize Redemption Falls Founder’s Day from Bobbi Jo Simmons, the town’s self-proclaimed socialite.

Founder’s Day.

That’s it?

“Jesus,” I mutter with a shake of my head. Talk about overreacting.

I’ve learned to live with the paranoia. To place it on the back burner of my mind only to resurface when someone I don’t know looks at me a little too long or when the phone rings and there’s that slight delay before the salesperson on the other end speaks. And as I learned just now, when I receive handwritten letters.

But the fact that the letter is harmless doesn’t do anything to abate the panic attack still rioting through my body—hands shaking, heart racing, head dizzying. I walk unsteadily over to an apothecary cabinet I have in the family room and open the top drawers, looking for my prescription to help settle me.

The first one is empty.

I rifle through the second drawer with one hand while opening the third—and the picture I forgot I’d placed in there months ago stops me dead in my tracks. It’s of a different time. A different place. A different me.

My hair is light, blonde, and it’s weird how I suddenly remember how much time it used to take at the salon to get it that color.

But it’s not me I stare at.

It’s the man standing at my side. His dark hair, a little long, curls over his expensive suit jacket’s collar. His olive skin only serves to deepen his brown eyes and make the brilliance of his smile that much brighter.

Kaleo.

The man I thought walked on water.

Until I found out it was just the opposite.

I remember that night like it was yesterday. The party and its extravagance. The company—A-list movie stars, Fortune 500 businessmen, magnates of industry. The way everyone looked at us.

Memories I’d prefer I didn’t have. Memories I’m supposed to pretend never happened.

I flip the picture over and shove it back in the drawer.

My breath is steadier now, my head clearer, but my pulse still thunders out of control.

Screw the prescription and bring on the wine.

That’s what I need.

A nice rosé to sip and enjoy while I figure out what to make for dinner—if I make anything—because I’m not against a bowl of ice cream for dinner every now and then.

And tonight might just be one of those nights because I’ve been so busy with work, I’ve put off going to the grocery store for far too long. If there was a contest on what is the oldest thing in your refrigerator, I could probably win at this point.