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And if she did, could Scott fit into her future? Would he want to?
As committed to football as Will had been to his research, there would always be something seductive in that level of determination. It drew her in, because if he could look at her like he looked atthe thing, whatever it was, cancer research, or football... She’d seen Scott look at her with that intensity, and it stole her breath.Her blood heated, then abruptly cooled.
She remembered Will, too. The times he’d turned the same intensity on her. The addictiveness of being the one he utterly adored. It made up for all the times in between, the distance, the late nights, the half-present conversations trailing off into silence as he retreated inside his own head.
She struggled to admit how much it had hurt. Struggled to accept Will for who he had been—allof who he’d been. He’d loved her, but, if she could be completely honest, she wondered if he’d loved her enough. Would she have woken up one morning tired of fighting for his attention?
Would the same happen with Scott?
No, she wouldn’t let it.
She’d learned to live on her own in the last three years. And if she had Gen, and their work, and maybe a therapy dog school, she’d have plenty to keep herself busy. Her own passions and commitments. Scott could be a part of her life, if he wanted to, but not her whole life. It could be different this time.
She grabbed her keys and strode out the door.
There was only one way to find out.
Twelve
HER NEWFOUND PURPOSE sustained her during the drive to Scott’s house, but as she turned up his street, it faltered. The fractured memories of her panic attack the night before swirled through her mind, and her stomach roiled in response. How would she ever explain it to Scott?
A knot of nausea threatened to undo Abby’s determination as she made her way up the porch steps. She knocked, then clenched her fingers, waiting for Scott to answer.
The door swung open, and it took all her willpower to meet his eyes. To still herself. To breathe.
“I’m... sorry.” Her voice cracked.
His eyes didn’t waver, the intensity of his glacial blue gaze searing.
She dragged in another breath. “I have some anxiety. I had a therapist for a while. She called it PTSD. When I get...” She stopped before the next word slipped out. Notupset. He hadn’t upset her with his gifts, with his declaration. He’d scared her. “Scared. When I get scared, it’s hard to control. And then, after... I thought you’d think I’m crazy. Or broken.” She couldn’t explain it any better, and Scott still stood in the doorway, eyes hard and unwavering.
Gen, at her feet, leaned against her leg.
Whatever he said, Abby drew comfort from the dog’s steady presence.
He sighed and raked a hand through his hair, then stepped to one side. “Want to come in and talk about it?”
Abby exhaled and Gen popped to her feet, mouth dropping open in a doggy smile. “Yes, I do.”
She stepped inside, releasing Gen to go find Dylan.
“I made coffee.” Scott waved toward the kitchen, then froze, expressions flitting across his face too fast for her to follow.
“I could definitely use some coffee,” Abby said, following him as he turned.
He pulled two mugs from the sink—their mugs—washing them quickly, then filling both, spooning sugar and pouring creamer into hers before handing it over.
When had he learned how she preferred her coffee?
She leaned back against the counter, blowing gently across the surface to cool it, then sipping.
And how had he gotten it perfect without even trying?
Clutching the mug, she welcomed the heat as it scalded her fingers, breathed in the scent as it rose on curls of steam, awakening her senses and securing her to this moment.
“I thought I’d gone insane the first time I found myself curled in a ball on the kitchen floor.” The sensory memory of her raw throat and aching chest washed over her. “I told myself the grief, the pain of losing...Will needed an outlet, and it would get better with time.”
She took another sip of her coffee, eyes darting up to meet Scott’s, then back down again.