Ashley

Sandy for now

Witness protection sucks.

After three months, I haven't settled into acceptance of this new life at all, and most definitely haven't stopped looking over my shoulder. A strong pull has me fighting that urge now, but I resist. Instead, I nervously huddle into my coat, pushing through the short walk home from work, the chill of one of the few cold days in Austin, Texas catching between the downtown buildings, the sun dipping behind the steel high rises. All the while, I'm wishing that I could turn back time. Wishing I never met Noah. Wishing I'd never fallen in love with a man who destroyed my life. Wishing I was back in New York City, still a paralegal, still an aspiring attorney, still named Ashley, still the right hand to one of the partners for the powerhouse law firm that had transferred me there from Houston.

But no, now, I'm a travel agent named Sandy, fighting that urge to look over my shoulder.

Because they even took my name, the only thing I had left that my parents gave me, except for my memories. Of course, being alone made me a target, no one to miss me and all that stuff. It also made me stupid silly for a hot man who went so far as to propose to me, when he ultimately would have killed me. I should have killed him. And I would have done it with the gun he taught me to use, all poetic justice perfection. A fantasy that's interrupted by the increased intensity of that tingling sensation.

I scan the area, and my unease makes the few blocks to my apartment feel too far. I cut right toward a busy Mexican restaurant that won't be kind to my waistline, but I need to just sit, calm down, and take some time to breathe. I'll blow my diet without hesitation if it allows me to do those things in a busy restaurant where no one can grab me.

I enter the spacious location with wooden chairs and tables and soft Mexican music that adds to the environment. Mexico and Mexican food are a part of this city's culture, which I might enjoy if I didn't just want to be back in New York, where I had a job and friends. The hostess greets me and offers me a table by a wall of windows, but I decline when I would normally accept. I don't need another way someone can watch me. I'm not sure I'll ever feel safe by a window again.

I end up at a table in the corner that allows me to see the entire restaurant which is now packed with about thirty people, fifteen of whom are all at one big party table that sits between me and the door. A waiter, who is in his mid—thirties with dark curly hair, greets me, and I'm relieved when he barely looks at me. I spent a big portion of my life wanting to be the gorgeous redhead my mother was and feeling as if I wasn't. Now, I've ensured I never will be as I've gone brunette, even though I was told I didn't have to, but it feels like an extra shield. Just like the karate and weapon handling classes I'm taking do as well. Classes he of all people convinced me to take back in New York, and ones I've continued here in Texas. That fact still makes no sense to me. None of it makes any sense.

The waiter reappears, and I order food that I don't really want and then sink back into my seat, scanning the restaurant again and frowning at the man sitting in the opposite corner of the restaurant behind the bar. I can only see his hands, and this bothers me. They're strong hands, and as silly as it might seem, they feel familiar.

My mind conjures an image of him, of Noah—tall, dark and good looking with wavy black hair and chiseled features. He was gorgeous, of course, but he was so much more than looks. He was charming and intelligent, and we had so much in common. I want to laugh at this, at myself. He was a CIA agent with a law degree who turned traitor, not an attorney turned financial consultant as he had presented himself. We had nothing in common.

And damn it, I tell myself not to do this, but as I have so many times, looking for reason in it all, I'm back in the past, reliving the first time I met him.

I hurry through the lobby of my office building, eager to get to the courthouse for a filing for my boss. Cole Brooks is taking on a case for a woman accused of killing her sister, and he believes she's innocent. If anyone can get her off, he can. He's that good, but if I don't make this filing and the case stays in this district, it could get messy, and no one will care that there's a rare Houston snowstorm starting to flare outside.

I exit the building, into the rush of the storm, and turn right. I've taken about half a dozen steps when I hit a patch of ice and go down hard. Thankfully, my coat is a buffer, but I'm not wearing gloves, and my palms all but stick to the ice. I'd curse whoever should have cleared this walkway, but the storm came hard and fast, and it's nothing this city knows well. Besides, I'm too embarrassed to get mad and with good reason: there are dozens of people roaming here and there, all staring at me like I'm a fool.

"Need help?"

I look up to find a gorgeous man in an expensive coat and scarf over what I suspect is an equally expensive suit, with rich brown eyes and dark hair. My boss is hot and so are half the men I work with daily, but I'm not all that affected by it anymore. Personality and arrogance can ruin a good man, but this time, with this man, I feel butterflies, and my embarrassment is tenfold. "No thanks. I'm good." I try to get up and make it almost upright when I fall all over again.

Mr. Good Looking kneels beside me. "You okay?"

"Yes. Just mortified."

His lips, which are very nice lips, curve. "Don't be. We've all hit a few icy patches along the way." He offers me his hand. "Now do you want help?"

I stare at his hand, and I have this sensation of change, like the minute I touch him, I'll be changed forever. But I do it. I accept his gloveless hand and warmth rushes up my cold arm, over my chest, sliding low in my belly. His eyes narrow, a hint of something in their depths, like maybe he felt what I felt, though that's unlikely. I'm just having some kind of Cinderella fantasy right now, and he's starring as the hero.

He stands and takes me with him, and I end up planted against him. He doesn't let me go. He stares down at me, his gaze lowering to my cold lips and then lifting. "I'm Noah."

"Ashley," I say.

"Have coffee with me, Ashley."

"I can't. I have to get to the courthouse."

"Then have drinks with me later. Do you know the Twelve Caverns?"

"No. No, I don't."

"It's by the courthouse. I'll be there at seven for a meeting. Meet me at eight."

I feel this overwhelming need to run to this man as surely as I want to run away. I don't understand it. It makes no sense. "I'll think about it," I say.

"I hope you'll think in my favor," he says. "I did save you from a wicked patch of ice determined to keep you as its own."

I laugh. "Yes. You did."

He brings my knuckles to his lips and kisses them. "I hope to see you soon." He releases me and leaves while the warmth he's created in me lingers.

I blink back to the present and to the man whose hands inspired the memory, but he's gone like Noah is gone. I'm alone now. My food arrives on that thought, and I take my time eating, that first time meeting and touching Noah in my mind, the passionate love affair to follow, something I'd never known before, and I doubt I will know again.

Once I'm done eating, I pay my bill, and when I look toward the table with the man who feels familiar, he's still gone. I have this odd mix of disappointment and unease that stays with me when I exit the restaurant, and, once again, I feel that tingling sensation. I start walking, and this time, that sensation is so strong that I all but run. I can't get home fast enough.