Page 52 of Deathtoll

“I miss you,” he said. “Am I allowed to say that?”

She stepped forward. “Don’t make me out to be an ogre.”

“Kate, I—”

He shifted toward her, and then he was suddenly too close. She had to raise her head to look into his eyes. But halfway there, her gaze got stuck on his lips.

God, the things those lips could do to her.

He went still.

She wasn’t sure he was still breathing.

Wasshe?

She couldn’t raise her gaze, because she was afraid what she’d find in his eyes, and how she would respond to it.

The masculine line of his jaw was right in front of her. If she leaned forward two inches, she could kiss it.

What a stupid thought. Of course, she wasn’t going to do that.

She wasn’t going to nuzzle his neck either, to breathe him in. Wasn’t going to brace her hands on his hard chest. Wasn’t going to lift her face just in time for him to slant his mouth over hers.

All good, but now she’d been standing way too close to Murph for way too long. And he was waiting, probably thinking this was a lead-up to something.

Mixed signals. Don’t send them. It’s not fair to him.

Kate shuffled back—noting, bewildered, that moving away from him made her ache. She busied herself with her coffee, hating how fast her heart was beating. “Want a cup?”

She still couldn’t look at him.

She said nothing about having possibly spotted Ian. If Murph thought that she was in danger, he’d stand guard in front of her office all day.

“I’m good,” he said, his voice strained.

She seriously needed to put more distance between them than her little office allowed. “I’m out of creamer. I need to run down to the cafeteria.”

“All right. You have a good morning.” Then he walked away.

And after a few seconds, Kate could finally breathe.

The second cup of coffee did the trick, kept her going through three massages back-to-back. She ate lunch behind her desk, the best vegetarian chili on the planet. Julia, the head cook at the center, was an artist with vegetables.

Scott Young was her first patient in the afternoon, the Marine who’d had issues the week before. According to his file, he’d had daily therapy sessions since theincidentand showed improvement. Maria, his therapist, thought he was ready to try again.

“Sorry.” He walked through the door five minutes late, rubbing his palms on the side of his pants.

Sweaty palms. Nervous.Had probably been thinking about not coming.

“Nothing to apologize for, Scott.” Kate gave him an encouraging smile. “I’ve been looking forward to catching up with you. I hear you’re making amazing progress. How do you feel? Ready?”

“I hope so. I’m really sorry about last time.”

“It’s a normal response to past trauma. Your brain’s number one job is to prevent you from getting hurt. If you think something is a threat, you defend yourself. It’s the most basic evolutionary response.”

“But you’re not a threat.”

She kept on smiling. “No, I’m not. You think you can trust me?”