A shape. White. Human.
Her stomach dropped.
In the window’s reflection, the figure leaned close, and its mouth opened.
“Erielle.”
Eleven
Sam pulledup in front of the Benoit place the next morning, his toolbox rattling in the bed of his truck. Erielle had told him flat out she didn’t want his help. Too bad. He’d been raised not to walk away from someone in trouble—especially not a woman trying so hard to pretend she wasn’t.
Not that Erielle would appreciate being called a damsel in distress. He could practically hear her hiss of anger if he dared. The thought made him grin. She was all contradictions—soft in some ways, hard as nails in others—and the mix was more intriguing than he cared to admit.
Her story from last night still sat heavy in his chest, equal parts anger and protectiveness. If he ever met her ex, face to face, well. His shoulders strained as he imagined punching the other guy—who he’d looked up last night when he’d gotten home—in the mouth.
He headed up the driveway, choosing the gravel over the yard, which had turned into a muddy swamp after last night’s storm. Cal had mentioned the roof leaked, along with the broken window latch. With the storm rolling through, those little problems had probably turned into bigger ones. He just hoped the damage wasn’t too bad.
He was halfway to the porch when movement caught his eye. He stopped short, heart giving a startled kick.
Erielle was curled in the back seat of her car.
What the hell?
He hesitated, then rapped his knuckles against the glass.
She jolted awake, hair tumbling into her face as she braced her hands behind her on the seat. Blinking against the morning light, she shoved the strands back and muttered something he couldn’t hear—but the annoyance in it came through clear enough. With a sigh, she scooted across the seat and pushed the door open.
Samson did his best to keep his gaze respectful. Really, he did. But her long bare legs in those little knit shorts weren’t exactly easy to ignore. He was man enough to admit he wasn’t a hundred percent successful.
“What are you doing out here?”
She turned on the seat and moved her feet around on the floorboard, looking for her shoes. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
He looked past her into the back seat, at the tangled blanket and mangled pillow. “You been sleeping out here?”
“Just last night.” She wriggled out of the car to stand on the driveway.
“In the storm?”
“It was mostly over by the time I fell asleep.”
She wasn’t meeting his gaze. He wondered why. “You’re not going to tell me why?”
She pushed her hair back again, folded her arms over her chest, then leaned back into the car for her blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders, more for modesty than because she was cold, since it had to be nearly eighty degrees out here.
“I felt safer out here.”
“In a storm.” He saw now that her feet were muddy, her legs flecked with it. He looked back over the yard, searching for her footprints, but they’d washed away. What had happened here last night?
“Yeah, I can’t explain it.” She blinked again and looked up at him. “What are you doing here, anyway?”
She seemed eager to change the subject, and he didn’t want her feeling any more vulnerable than she already did, so he accommodated her. He lifted the toolbox he carried. “I thought I’d come look at those windows in the attic.”
She drew in on herself, would have taken a step back if she had had room. “Oh, I told you you didn’t have to do that.”
“No, I know, but I still thought I’d see what I could do.”
She rubbed her eyes. “What time is it, anyway?”
