No Ordinary Home. Mary Sullivan

problem. You don’t need this.

       Damn right I don’t. I’ve got two weeks of footloose and fancy-free to take advantage of.

      Even as his thoughts whirled, he knew he wouldn’t turn his back on her, and wasn’t it a piss-off that he was so honorable? That he couldn’t keep himself from helping any wounded or sad creature who crossed his path? Life would be a heck of a lot easier if he could just walk away.

      He sighed, giving in to the inevitable rush of misguided decency. Damn.

      “Come on.” He headed back around to the front of the diner. When he didn’t hear her behind him, he tromped back.

      “You coming?”

      She stood where he’d left her, rigid, her intelligent brow furrowed.

      “Are you arresting me?”

      “No.”

      She relaxed her spine and eased her fists open. “Then why do I have to follow you?”

      “I’m going to feed you.”

      A frown knit those raven’s-wings eyebrows together. If she’d been on the road for any length of time, he figured her distrust of strangers was hard-earned.

      “I can’t let you walk away hungry,” he admitted.

      “Why not?”

      Might as well tell her the truth. She’d figure it out soon enough. “Because I’m a hopeless sap.”

      She still didn’t seem to believe him.

      “Look, I know you probably see the worst of people on the road, but you can trust me. I come from a small town, where we treat others kindly.”

      For some reason, that won her over. Her frown cleared.

      “Are you coming to eat, or what?”

      She might have had a pack of hounds on her tail, she shot forward so quickly, ready to follow wherever he might lead if it meant a meal.

      Yeah. He could read her like a book. He knew how hunger felt when you’d gone past the point of a grumbling stomach to sheer hollowness, to the ceaseless physical ache. To dreaming about food, thinking about it endlessly, obsessing about it, until it shut all else out of your mind.

      He didn’t need the reminders of a hard past, should leave her here and be on his way, but God, she was thin. Holding her had been like wrapping his arms around a sapling.

      He stepped away from her abruptly because the last thing he wanted was more memories coming back to haunt him. They got worse before they got better.

      She stumbled and he caught her arm. “What’s wrong?”

      “I wrenched my ankle when I jumped out of the tree.”

      “How far did you jump?”

      She shrugged, lips tight. Fine. She could keep her secrets.

       For a tough woman, she needs a keeper.

       Damned if that’s going to be me. I’m sick of that role. I’ll feed her and get rid of her. No “taking care” of her beyond one hot meal.

      Even so, he led her around front to do exactly that—take care of her.

      * * *

      FOOD.

      Food had dominated Gracie Travers’s every waking moment for days, weeks, every minute, every painful second.

      Hunger was a vicious, angry rat gnawing at her stomach walls. Relentless. Overwhelming. Unwilling to give her a moment’s peace.

      She’d been through rough patches before, but nothing like this. No one would hire her to do even the most mundane, unskilled work. She wasn’t asking for a paycheck. Just for food. Nothing else. Just a meal.

       Food.

      She didn’t want a handout. She could work. Would work. In her former life, she’d been known as a hard worker. She still knew how to be one. She just couldn’t get a real job.

      She couldn’t work full-time. She had her reasons. She certainly wouldn’t share them with a cop.

       Food.

      Every time her stomach cramped, all of those years of taking her blessings for granted haunted her.

      Things hurt so badly now that she wondered if her internal organs were starting to eat each other. How did starvation work? What did it do to the body that made it hurt so much?

      The scent of charbroiled burgers drifted out of the diner’s vents, so strong she gulped it.

      She kept pace with the man who said he would feed her, but hobbled because her ankle still throbbed.

      There were so many things Gracie should be worried about right now. Was the guy really a cop? Had he been lying about not arresting her? About wanting to feed her? Why would a guy she’d stolen from want to help her?

      Ahead of her, he walked with a long, confident stride, his shoulders broad and square.

      What would he expect in return? She’d fallen so low lately she’d actually stolen food two days ago and a wallet five minutes ago, but that was as far as her crime spree would take her. Did he want her body in exchange for food? She wouldn’t do that.

      Despite the questions, the one word that overrode all of them—food—won out.

      She chased the tall, handsome stranger around to the front of the building. Tall, handsome stranger sounded like something out of a palm-reading session or a romance novel. Ha. As if there truly were happy endings in real life. She knew better.

      What did he want in return?

      If this guy wanted to feed her, fine and good, but she would owe him what she chose to owe him. She would polish his shoes, do his laundry if he gave her the chance, or wash his car, but he would take nothing from her other than what she chose to give. She was long past the point of letting people take advantage of her.

      But what if he wouldn’t feed her if she didn’t give in to his demands? Where would she be then?

      Her head hurt—from the hunger, but also from the endless uncertainty. It was time to stop running. In two days, she would.

      Only two more days to go.

      In two days, she would say goodbye to the road forever. No more running.

      So close.

      She stepped into the diner, desperate for the comfort of a full belly. Her lizard brain just wanted the food this stranger offered. Her developed brain would have to worry about consequences—and how to deal with them—later.

      The smells overwhelmed her, of hot fat, bacon, eggs frying. Toast. They’d burned a slice or two. Even if burnt to charcoal, she would eat it. With or without butter. Or jam. Oh, jam. How long had it been?

      Another scent teased her. The man beside her smelled clean, more than clean, as though the soap he used was part of him, oozing from his pores like the purest thing on earth.

      She hadn’t showered in weeks. A month, even? At the last gas station, she’d washed her underarms using cold water, a cheap paper towel as rough as sandpaper and industrial hand soap. Her armpits had burned afterward. They still itched.

      Grease and dust coated her hair. What could she do about that? When you were hungry, shampoo was a hell of a lot less important than food. And conditioner? A luxury. She hadn’t used it in a couple of years.

      She hadn’t really cared until this man with his disheveled blond hair, clear blue eyes and broad shoulders made her want to comb her hair. Maybe put on a little lipstick.

      She’d given up on all of that six years ago. Cripes. Had she really been on the road that long? Only two more days until