Page 5 of Wasted

Then he let his attention go where it had wanted to since the moment he’d entered the house. Since the moment he’d arrived in Chicago again. And long before.

Victoria. Man, the woman made even scrubs look gorgeous.

Her hazel eyes locked onto his across the distance of the small living room.

His heart crashed into his ribs.

He had come back to rescue her. But this wasn’t the kind of rescue he’d had in mind.

It couldn’t be him. Victoria stared across the cluttered room at Cillian Doherty. At least, she thought it was him, though the concept seemed like a scientific impossibility.

He told his version of what had happened for the third time to another officer who seemed intent on visually mapping out the events. Cillian’s voice—the deep, impressive tone he’d had as a seventeen-year-old—carried to her, fluttering her pulse in that way it always had.

Sixteen years. Sixteen years without seeing or hearing anything about him. And now, he’d suddenly burst into a client’s house during an altercation?

She’d nearly had a heart attack when he had appeared out of nowhere. Because it was him. Her first and only crush.

She’d thought she must be hallucinating for the first few seconds, until he’d quickly scanned the room.

The power of his presence, the intensity and heat, and those coal-dark eyes as they’d briefly touched on her were unmistakable.

But why was Cillian Doherty here? In Chicago, the place he’d been desperate to leave behind forever?

After sixteen years, he’d stepped into her client’s home right at that moment, in time to save her and the others from an attack. The implausibility of the situation was nearly too much for her to process or comprehend.

Shouts from outside the house pierced her confused stream of thoughts. Jamica. Already trying to plead for her boyfriend’s innocence, from the sounds of it. Never mind that the man had threatened to kill her and her young son only moments ago.

Delilah still sat on the sofa, now behind Victoria since she’d moved a bit closer to the entryway earlier to relate her version of the events to one of the officers. Delilah argued for the opposite outcome than her daughter, demanding that the officer she spoke with arrest Jamica’s boyfriend immediately and throw away the key.

But the Trents’ family troubles, their high-volume complaints indoors and outside, sounded like white noise in the background of the moment.

Perhaps Victoria was experiencing some degree of shock. After all, this was the second hostage situation she’d experienced in only four months.

But the odd, almost muffled sounds and her lack of awareness of the people around her contrasted with the extremely heightened awareness she had for one person. One man.

No, she wasn’t in shock. At least not from the danger she had survived again.

Cillian kept looking her way as he talked to the officer.

She noticed every glance, each one like a jolt to her nervous system. Why was he here? How could he be?

He abruptly turned away from the officer. He was walking her way.

She wasn’t ready. She swallowed, the unnerving feeling of watching a ghost from her past crawling through her.

But he wasn’t exactly the same. Her mind seemed to latch on to his appearance for something to think about as a defense against his approach.

The thick black hair he’d let grow to his shoulders as a teen was now tamed into a flattering style that was medium length on top and not too short on the sides. The shoulders she’d thought were broad when they had dated had filled out along with the rest of his muscular physique, matching his increased height. He was taller than either of her brothers, perhaps six foot three, judging from how far she had to tilt her chin to see him—when he stopped directly in front of her.

His dark brown eyes landed on her, full of the intensity and heat that emanated from him. Still.

Her breath caught.

She’d forgotten. Forgotten how handsome he was. How her heart tried to smash through her ribs when he was near. How his presence and attention made her feel things she never had before and hadn’t experienced since.

“Victoria Weston.” His deep voice oozed like hot lava through her insides. His mouth angled in the lopsided grin she hadn’t forgotten, though she’d tried. Oh, how she’d tried, telling herself he was a boy of her youth. Her first crush. He was simply a part of her coming of age that could be left behind as a distant, forgotten memory.

But the man standing before her was no teen memory. He had come of age, as well. The results were enough to scatter her senses and?—