Page 6 of Done with You

That had been the start of her escape plan.

She was gun-shy when it came to relationships now, though. Hadn’t had one since Russell, which was back when she was doing her masters. And since then, she had barely dated. She had the occasional fling with someone she connected with on a sexual but superficial level, but nothing ever became serious. Nothing stuck.

Then there was Ben. He was a research scientist at McGill. He flitted in and out of her life like a zephyr, and that was something that worked well for both of them. Not only that, he wasn’t in town for more than a week before he went off on another grand adventure to investigate turtles in the Galápagos or stingrays on the Great Barrier Reef. They had fun when he was in town, but she knew he was having fun with other women wherever he was, and he didn’t expect her to be celibate while he was away. Though she usually was.

But she hadn’t heard from Ben in nearly six months, which was a rather long time, all things considered.

“Are your legs littered with bruises?” Caden asked, breaking her introspective train of thought as they sat side-by-side at the bar eating nachos, yam fries and watching the highlights after the hockey game.

“They used to be,” she said, dipping a yam fry in the chipotle mayo. “But I’ve been doing it so long now, my body has adjusted and I don’t get too many anymore. When I first started, though, you should have seen my legs. More blue and purple than my skin-tone. And of course, I started in the summer, so I couldn’t even wear dresses or skirts for fear of someone thinking I was being viciously beaten.”

Besides, Russell never left bruises that were visible. He always made sure to allocate them to her torso or upper arms.

“I’ve got some pretty gnarly callouses, though,” she said, holding out her palms to show off her leathery pads of pride.

Caden reached out with his right index finger and gently rubbed her callouses. “Jesus. You sure do. Those are like … I dunno.” He scratched the dark scruff on his chin until it made a raspy sound. “It’s like you work in the coal mines with a shovel or in the woods with an axe, with hands like that.”

She grinned, grabbed a tortilla chip, and dipped it into the salsa. “Nope. Just spin my body around a metal pole.”

“You sure do.” Out came the dimples and she had to inconspicuously keep herself from falling over from their intensity. She also made sure to keep her swoony sigh on the inside. “So what do you do for work anyway?”

Her gaze slid sideways as she chewed. She was already using a fake name with him. Her stage name. Luna Love. And she rarely told a stranger what she did for work. As soon as anyone found out she was a psychologist, they immediately assumed she was analyzing them—which she was—and either went into protective mode, or spewed their guts and life problems at her as if she’d fix them in an hour for free. But she also hated lying, so she kept things vague. “I’m in healthcare.”

His green eyes widened. “Oh, okay. A doctor?”

“Sure.”

That wasn’t a lie. She did have her PhD. She was Dr. Oona Young. And she was in mental healthcare. So she wasn’t really, truly lying.

His head cocked to the side like a curious puppy for a moment, but then he smiled and nodded, catching her drift that she didn’t want to get too serious and personal. “I’m a first responder,” he said, also deliberately keeping it vague. Yep. Just as she suspected. Probably cop or a firefighter.

“Thank you for your service.”

“Thank you for yours, doctor.”

His smile was coy and sexy and she slid one similar right back at him.

The sexual tension that rippled off him was making her lightheaded, and she hadn’t had a drop of alcohol. He glanced up at the television over the bar and took a sip of his club soda, allowing her a moment to study his profile.

He was even more handsome in close proximity. His bottom lashes had an exaggerated curve and were as black as coal. They were long—like the length that a lot of women paid a great deal of money to achieve—and delicate, kissing the skin below his eyes. A faint smattering of freckles, faint but there, dotted his upper cheekbones and ran across his long, prominent nose. Some might say his nose was a touch too long, but she thought it suited him perfectly. It was a good-looking nose. A nose with character.

“You from around here?” he asked.

“Beaconsfield area,” she said. “You?”

“Charlemagne,” he replied.

“Opposite sides of the city. And yet, here we are in the middle.”

He lifted his club soda and held it out halfway, waiting for her to touch it with her Shirley Temple. “And yet, here we are in the middle.”

She tapped his drink, then took a sip. “What brings you this way?”

His brow lifted. “Do you really care?”

No. She didn’t. “As long as it wasn’t to murder someone and bury the body, I suppose not.”

Caden snorted and sipped his drink. He’d removed the straw every time the bartender set a new drink down, preferring to drink it straight from the glass. “Not hiding any bodies. Just here for an appointment.”

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