Page 5

T he bang of Clara’s bedroom door opening was loud, closely followed by a gasp and an angry shout. “ Clara. ”

Clara scrunched her eyes. She’d been having the best dream. It involved croissants and sweet teas and Holden without a shirt on.

Something hit her head. A pillow?

“Clara…can you hear me? Why are you still in bed?”

She cracked one eye open. The light immediately made her want to snap it closed again. She didn’t. She forced herself to focus on the figure in front of her. Scarlett. And boy, she looked mad.

“Because I don’t like to sleep on the floor,” she finally mumbled.

The wrong thing to say, if the flaring of Scarlett’s eyes was anything to go by. “It’s five forty-five.”

“Yeah, sleep time.” Was the sun even up?

“We need to go .”

“Go where?”

“Have you got amnesia? The running club.”

Okay, sleep time was well and truly over.

She pushed up and rubbed her eyes. “You still want to do that after you yelled at me in the kitchen two days ago?”

“I didn’t yell at you. I was just mad.”

Clara barely held in the snort.

“You have three minutes.” The words had barely left Scarlett’s lips before the bedroom door slammed behind her.

Jesus freaking Christ. Who did the woman think she was?

Well, she wasn’t going now. What she was doing was going back to sleep. And getting a lock for her bedroom door. In that order.

She rolled to her side, but before closing her eyes, she tapped her phone screen, only to frown at a text. It had been sent last night, but she’d gone to bed early and missed it.

Becket: Hey, Jesse told me about some running club tomorrow morning. I think you should sit it out, C. You get tired too easily and you almost passed out in my kitchen a month ago. Be smart.

Be smart? Her brother was telling her to be freaking smart , as if she was a child who needed to be told what smart and dumb decisions were?

Screw it.

She was going to this running club. No, she didn’t need to prove herself to anyone, but if she didn’t go, her family would think it was because they didn’t want her to.

She quickly typed out a response.

Clara: I’m okay, Becket. You don’t always need to worry about me.

Yes, she still suffered from chronic fatigue, but it was something she’d learned to live with over the years. Something she was capable of managing on her own. Something she wished the men in her family would understand.

After slipping on some running shorts, a sports bra, and a T-shirt, she grabbed her hoodie and stepped out into the hall to see her roommate by the door.

“I grabbed us waters. Is it okay if I ride with you?”

Scarlett was talking like she hadn’t just barged into her room and thrown a pillow at her head. Did this woman have a personality disorder? Or was she just used to her moods giving people whiplash?

At this point, Clara was too tired to care. “Sure.”

The second they started driving, Scarlett started typing on her cell.

“Texting someone?”

Scarlett didn’t even look up. “No. I’m working.”

“You work a lot.”

“Because there is always a story to report on. Too many people think they can do bad shit and get away with it. It’s my job to make sure the public knows who lives in their community.”

Clara frowned. “You think there are people in Amber Ridge doing bad things?”

“Absolutely. Small towns are worse than big cities.”

“They are?”

“Lower population, so tighter social circles, which means power and influence are concentrated in a few people. Those people can then control the narrative and manipulate others around them to get what they want. There’s also limited law enforcement and resources.

Hell, some people in small towns fear outsiders, which makes them act like idiots.

Others have a strange need to protect the town’s reputation. ”

Jesus, Scarlett made small towns sound like hotbeds of crime.

Clara cleared her throat. “You’re really passionate about what you do, aren’t you?”

“I’m passionate about freedom of information and the bad guys being identified for the world to see.”

Clara shot her a look. This was more than Scarlett had ever told her about herself. It was good. It kind of felt like she was seeing the real Scarlett.

When they reached the park, it was to see a group of people in running gear already waiting.

She climbed out of her Volkswagen and frowned when she saw someone she recognized. Malcolm. She saw him around town every so often. Not much, but he always made a point to say hi.

His gaze met hers, his shaggy brown hair tipping into his eyes. He ran his fingers through it before leaving the group he was talking to and heading her way.

“You know him?” Scarlett asked.

“Not well. We went to high school together. He’s a doctor.”

Malcolm stopped in front of them. “Clara, it’s good to see you.”

“You too. You’re in the running group?”

“I am. As a doctor at the hospital, it would have been frowned upon to miss it. You’re here to run?”

“Probably not well, but my legs will be moving.”

He laughed.

Scarlett cleared her throat.

“Oh, sorry.” Clara turned toward her roommate. “Scarlett, this is Malcolm Trundle. Malcolm, this is my roommate, Scarlett Calloway.”

The widest smile Clara had ever seen spread across Scarlett’s face as she reached out a hand. “Hi, Dr. Trundle. It’s nice to meet you.”

And her voice. What was that ? Soft and friendly and completely unfamiliar.

Malcolm returned the smile, obviously not realizing he was talking to a Scarlett Clara didn’t recognize. “Just Malcolm. And you too. Are you an acupuncturist like Clara?”

“Oh no. I dabble in writing.”

So Scarlett wasn’t revealing that she was an investigative reporter. Was that the norm in their industry?

Two other women stopped beside Malcolm, and he turned to them. “Clara, Scarlett, this is Helen and Deb, nurses at the hospital.”

Helen looked to be in her thirties, with bright red hair, while Deb was older, maybe sixty, with a few grays woven throughout her long brown locks. Both women had large smiles on their faces and looked fit. In fact, everyone here looked fit.

Scarlett cocked her head, eyes still on Malcolm. “I feel like I’ve seen you before.”

Helen slipped an arm around Malcolm’s shoulders. “That’s probably because Malcolm here is the face of a new, revolutionary early detection and rapid response protocol for sepsis.”

Deb nodded. “It’s pretty great. It reduces mortality rates from septic shock.”

Scarlett nodded. “Yeah, I remember now. You were in papers all over the country.”

Clara didn’t know that. “Congratulations.”

Malcolm lifted a shoulder. “I was just doing my job.”

The four of them continued talking about the protocol, but Clara got distracted by the sight of some very broad shoulders a few feet away.

She straightened.

Wait…she knew those shoulders. And that hair. Hair that had been in her freaking dream this morning.

No…

The man turned and—yep. Holden, in the flesh, standing only a few feet away, wearing running shorts and a T-shirt.

Really? She’d told him no and he’d still come?

She shouldn’t be surprised—it was a Holden move.

The man had made his intentions to come today pretty clear, but dammit, she’d made her desire for him not to come clear, too.

She was actually surprised her brothers hadn’t joined him. But, man oh man, she was angry.

She was a microsecond away from storming straight over to him when suddenly, his gaze caught hers.

And a part of her—the part she absolutely did not like in this moment—felt something other than anger. Something warmer that sat low in her belly and made her cheeks grow hot.

Then he was moving toward her. And every stride he took made that anger shrivel up a little more. Maybe it was because he was wearing a tight white shirt that stretched across his thick biceps. Or maybe it was because the power in his legs was evident even in his shorts.

He stopped beside her. “Hey, Clara.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Running.”

Well, of course he was running, but that wasn’t why he was here and they both knew it.

She opened her mouth to tell him just that, but Malcolm got in first.

“Hey. Holden, right?”

Holden frowned at Malcolm. “Yeah. Do I know you?”

Oh, hell no, they were not going to bring up that night.

“We went to high school together,” Clara said before Malcolm could answer. “This is Malcolm, Helen, and Deb, who work at the hospital, and my roommate, Scarlett.”

“I take it you don’t work at the hospital?” Scarlett asked.

“No. I’m a woodworker.”

“Really? You any good at fixing cracked floorboards?”

Clara’s chest rose on a sharp inhale. “He doesn’t need—”

“You’ve got a cracked floorboard?” Holden interrupted.

Clara started shaking her head as Scarlett answered. “Yeah, and it’s a tripping hazard. Can you help?”

“Sure.”

Clara shook her head more vigorously. “You don’t need to do that.”

“Of course he does,” Scarlett said with a frown. “It’s been an issue since I moved in, and he’s your friend. What’s the problem?”

The problem was that if this tall, dark, and too-sexy-for-his-own-good man entered her house, the entire place would smell of peppermint and pine, and he’d take up too much space with his broad shoulders and look far too good while he fixed things.

“Clara, I’m happy to do it,” Holden said gently, his voice like velvet.

“I—”

“Holden, you made it.”

They all turned to see a woman in mini running shorts and a sports bra walking toward them.

Clara frowned. Wait…she knew her. Well, she didn’t know her. But she’d seen her before. She was the rude iris lady.

They knew each other?

Briar touched Holden’s arm, and even though the touch was innocent, Clara had the sudden violent urge to tear the woman’s hand off.

Holden offered her a small smile. “Hi, Briar.”

How did he know her?

“Come. Run with me.” Miss Short Shorts tugged him away.

Clara should be happy. She hadn’t wanted him here anyway. So why was that violent urgency just intensifying at the woman’s hand on him?