Page 3 of Ardently Yours

Polford hated Steve. I can see it in his micro-grimace. Hear it in the change of cadence with certain words. Not a sentenceleaves his mouth in reference to Steve’s unborn child or fiancèe. If she isn’t here, I’ll have to track down the address for her parents’ farm—

The pastor stiffens, losing track of his words, his attention focused on something at the back of the church. Polford’s eyes go flat as a shark’s.

Even before I turn my head to follow his gaze, I know who I’ll see.

Charlotte Miller.

Flanked by her parents and siblings, she stands a foot behind the last row. About six months pregnant, her posture rigid, she glares with unflinching intensity at Jeremy Polford.

From the corner, my Close Protection Officer, Reese, shoots me a sardonic look.Never forget to check your flank.My mistake was expecting Charlotte to be near the front where immediate next of kin would normally be found.

The interaction between Charlotte and the minister has drawn attention, but she doesn’t appear to notice.

Charlotte Miller and I aren’t alike. We’re barely from the same planet. But the way the crowd watches her, whispering behind their hands with unadulterated curiosity and judgment, is infuriatingly familiar. I know the combination of grief and protective fury in her eyes all too well.

Charlotte looks nothing like the girl I expected to find. The photo in Steve’s work locker was of a nineteen-year-old college student on a full-ride scholarship to Columbia. That girl wore jeans and a sweatshirt, her honey-blonde hair was piled on top of her head, and her smile was contagious.

Charlotte cradles her belly, and the cheap fabric of a clearly secondhand maternity dress drowns her in material, giving the disconcerting impression that she’s half soldier, half waif.

A muscle flexes in her cheek.

No. There isn’t a thing about her that’s pitiful.

She may, however, be in need of even more help than I originally assumed. The understanding pushes past my grief to something edgier. Hotter. It leaks into those hollow places, providing a sense of purpose in the face of a senseless, purposeless death.

So much death in the last two years that I’ve grown numb to stay sane.

I glance back at Charlotte. This time, I nearly catch her eye, but . . . She’s not looking at me after all. She drags in a ragged breath, then appears to force herself to glare at Polford once more.

That’smygirl, Charlotte.

Eventually, Polford wraps up the service and invites the crowd to join him in the basement fellowship hall for a luncheon. Charlotte, hand on her lower back, moves to the lobby of the church. Charlotte’s mother wraps her arm around her daughter, and I follow the Miller family to the church annex.

“She should have known better than to come here,” a feminine voice mutters under her breath.

I turn to face the thirty-something woman, my expression one of polite inquiry.Keep talking, lady. Explain why you’re all treating a grieving girl like a pariah.

The woman’s hair is dark, her skin pale, and she wears makeup so thick that it’s impossible to see any hint of her natural face.

When she notices me, she brushes her hair over her shoulder and subtly angles her body toward me with a practiced, twinkling smile. Before my eyes, she’s flipped a switch.“Hi, there. I’m Bianca Polford. You look so familiar to me. How do you know Steve and his family?”

The pastor’s wife.

“I was Steve’s employer.”And friend.“Are you well? Do you need assistance?”

She trills a small laugh. “Of course I’m fine. Why would you ask that?”

I drop my chin and indicate her left eye. “You have a broken blood vessel and some swelling.”

She waves her hand and holds on to her smile. “It’s truly so kind of you to be concerned. I smacked my head into a cabinet door. I’m a clumsy person,” she says confidingly. “It’s a bit of a joke around here. I could give myself a concussion in my sleep.”

“If you need help getting away from your . . . cabinets . . . there are resources—”

“Whatever you’re implying is wrong. My husband is a wonderful man. Ask anyone.”

“Nobody talks to you like that, Char. If you won’t tell them to kiss your ass,I will,” a deep voice rumbles, then ends with a boom. Charlotte’s older brother—What was his name? Max.—Max glares at a small group of older women. “You’re a bunch of fucking hypocrites.”

The women turn their backs and scurry away, huddled together and honking like angry geese.

---