Regardless, I shore up my resolve, take a confident step forward, and continue up the driveway to the tiny concrete walkway connected to the front porch. A yellow-lighted sconce illuminates the area.
I hesitate, remembering the last time I saw August. We were barely eighteen years old. My dad was on a “business” trip, and we had the house all to ourselves. That was an all-too-common occurrence since my dad traveled a lot, and I didn’t have a mom to watch over me. Add in the fact we were deeply in love—or so we thought—and horny teenagers, it meant we spent a lot of time having sex in my pink-walled bedroom.
August was still inside me, and I was flush with the completion of an intense orgasm. God, he sure knew his way around a woman’s body, which was impressive given how we were each other’s firsts. We’d started dating our sophomore year in high school, and we’d given it up to each other within just a few months. I once asked him how he knew so much—how he was doing things to me that none of my other sexually active friends were even considering doing—and he just smiled slyly and said, “Porn.”
I never knew if it was true, but I was thankful either way.
“Just twenty-nine more days,” he said, eyes on mine. He was still hard inside me. Sometimes, he had the power to go again. I wondered if this was one of those times.
I glanced over at the clock beside my bed. It was past midnight. I grinned. “Twenty-eight days now.”
“Rest of our lives together,” he murmured. He bent to kiss me, then started moving inside me again.
Just thinking about it causes a pang of sexual longing between my legs. It’s been a long damn time since I’ve had sex. Thinking about August and the last time we were together is not helping matters.
We’d planned to go away to college together. Although my father and his parents weren’t crazy about it, we were going to share an apartment. We were going to be adults, on our own and living our lives together forever.
Sucking in a long breath, I hold it for several agonizing seconds. Just as I start to get a little dizzy, I let it out in a massive rush. I imagine all of my fears and doubts purging out of my body along with the carbon dioxide my lungs expel.
Once again, I straighten my spine before stepping onto the porch. After locating the doorbell, I place my fingertip to it, hesitating a nanosecond before I depress the button. Inside, it chimes loudly and I physically cringe.
No dog starts barking. Everything is silent. I wonder if August is even home, but then a light comes on through the frosted glass panes of the front door.
My pulse picks up as I hear the front door unlock—a regular lock and a deadbolt—and then the door swings open.
And there stands August. He looks so much like he did almost ten years ago, yet so vastly different.
The first thing I notice is how much he’s filled out. He’s in a low-slung pair of sweatpants and nothing else. His brownish-red hair is slightly longer than how he wore it in high school. It sticks up at various angles, indicating he was most likely soundly asleep when I rang that doorbell. He has a layer of scruff on his face, brown with red highlights. The tattoos on his arms and chest are definitely new, and they make him look like a badass. I have no clue what he does for a living, but I approve of the ink.
His eyes are the one thing that haven’t changed, and the sparkling green brilliance still takes my breath away. In my entire life, I’ve never seen eyes as beautiful as his.
August scrunches his eyebrows, an inquisitive expression crossing his face over finding a woman on his doorstep at two o’clock in the morning. He even gives me a polite smile—perhaps thinking I might need assistance with a broken-down car.
Then, he actually sees me. He leans a little closer as his gaze roams all over my face, finally locking on my eyes. Recognition dawns, and his mouth parts in astonishment.
“Tracey?” he asks, sounding awed. His voice trembles slightly. “Is that you?”
I smile, relieved he recognizes me even though my hair is coffee brown instead of blonde. It’s no longer down to the middle of my back, instead it’s cut into an angular bob. My blue eyes are now brown, thanks to the miracle of colored contacts.
“It’s actually Leighton now,” I say with an upturned chin. Wincing, I realize how sanctimonious that sounds, as if I were too good for my name. “What I mean is… I had to change my name to Leighton.”
August regards me in surprise before his expression changes… it’s almost as if he understands, but I don’t know how. How could he possibly understand why I’m here right now?
Stepping back from the door, August motions me inside. “Why don’t you come in?”
I cross the threshold, more nervous now than I have been in an exceedingly long time of having to look over my shoulder. August may have figured a few things out due to my change in appearance and name, but he has no clue what I’m getting ready to hit him with.
CHAPTER 3
August
Honestly, I’m reeling.
It’s not every day I’m confronted by a ghost from my past.
Tracey Glendale is in my home, apparently alive and well. Of course, under a different name now. Leighton. She definitely looks different. Given my cop background and current work with Jameson, it’s clear she’s hiding from someone or something.
“You want some coffee or something?” I ask. Moving through the spacious living area, I head into the kitchen at the rear of the house, flipping on lights as I go.
“No, thank you,” she replies, but I continue to the coffee pot. I have no clue why Tracey—Leighton—has suddenly shown up on my doorstep. I’m going to assume she needs help. Maybe she somehow knows about my background in law enforcement.
Regardless of the reason she’s here, I know I won’t be going back to sleep tonight.
Flipping on the Keurig, I turn toward her, leaning against the counter while it heats up. She stops on the other side of the kitchen island separating the open-floor plan from the living room, then places her purse almost gingerly on the counter. Her head dips, as if she’s afraid to look me in the eye.
“I thought you were dead for the longest time,” I say. Her head snaps up, eyes locking on mine. “You just disappeared. Not a word. No explanation. I went to your house, but all your furnishings were still there… your clothes. You and your dad just vanished into thin air. It was reasonable to conclude something bad had happened, so I just naturally assumed you’d died. Otherwise, you would have tried to reach out to me, right?”
Whoa… I had not intended to go off on that diatribe, but it suddenly hits me how angry I am she’s standing in my house after ten long years without a single word from her.
“I couldn’t,” she murmurs. Despite the bitterness welling inside me right now, I motion her toward one of the island stools. She sits, clasping her hands tightly together. “We were in WITSEC.”
“No, you weren’t,” I reply with a confident shake of my head. “I checked. Once I started with the Vegas PD, I used my connections to see what happened to you because I was having a tough time accepting you might be dead. But you weren’t in the system.”
Her head tilts, sympathy softening her features at the anger in my tone. “We were in deep. Very, very deep.”