so much. If I’m out of town, I pay someone to house-sit.”
The only way for Miguel to guarantee she’d be safe would be to stay here himself. The sheriff didn’t have the manpower to provide a bodyguard, and the same was true for the FBI. Law enforcement didn’t get involved in protective custody until after an attack. Then, it was too late.
She pulled a container from the freezer. “Lasagna?”
He was starving, and it would take hours to thaw that brick of pasta. “I have a better idea. I’ll make a run to the café and pick up a couple of burritos.”
“Great idea. Cooking isn’t really my thing.”
After she shoved the lasagna back into the freezer, she whirled around and beamed an unexpected smile in his direction. The worry in her face disappeared. Her blue eyes shimmered like sunlight on a mountain lake.
The analytical side of his brain shut down. As he stared at her, he forgot the potential danger that brought him here. The soft piano sonata from the CD player painted the air with soft pastels, like her watercolor paintings—colors that suited a gentle, graceful woman with silky brown hair. He almost felt like they were on a date.
“Thank you for coming over here so quickly,” she said.
“My pleasure.” Earlier he’d been thinking he should stay at her house as a bodyguard. Now he had another reason altogether. He wanted to be here, wanted to be with her. “I should get going. To the café.”
Shyly, she bit her lower lip. “Hurry back.”
EMMA WATCHED THROUGH the front window as Miguel climbed onto his Harley and drove away. Calling him had been one of the best decisions she’d ever made.
Humming along to Mozart, she meandered into the kitchen, where she sorted through a few things she could cook for tomorrow. Cooking for Miguel? The thought was both exciting and terrifying. Her culinary talents had never progressed beyond making a salad. Preparing an elaborate dinner for one didn’t interest her.
After a little tidying up, she went into her bedroom, placed Jack on the comforter and stretched out beside him. Since her reading time was limited to short spurts between baby care, magazines had taken the place of books. The glossy pages flipped through her fingers and landed on an article titled, “How To Make Him Hot For You.”
She scanned the checklist: perfume, lip gloss, smoky eyes, flirty clothes. Touch him frequently. Find out what you have in common. “Not much,” she said to Jack. “We’re pretty much opposites.”
And she was far too mature to follow the advice of a magazine article. “But maybe a dab of perfume wouldn’t hurt.”
When she rose from the bed, she saw Grandma Quinn standing in the doorway. Her voice was a thin whisper. “Emma, get out of the house. There’s danger.”
“What?”
“Take the baby and run.”
Fear chased Emma backward in time—all the way back to when she was a child. Grandma Quinn had warned her of danger, told her to run away and save herself. In a way, she’d been running ever since. She’d spent her life avoiding risk, keeping safe.
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