BRAVE, Episode Three - the Color of Danger by Melissa Shaw
Authors: Melissa Shaw
Tags: Suspense, Romance, Literature & Fiction, Genre Fiction, romantic suspense, Anthologies, Anthologies & Literature Collections, Mystery & Suspense, Short Stories & Anthologies, Two Hours or More (65-100 Pages), romantic suspense novel
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CHAPTER ONE
CRACK.
A brilliant flash of light woke her. The immediate boom of thunder followed, rattling the windows and shaking a glass vase on its shelf.
“Close call,” Chloe murmured drowsily. She’d been in a dream with him. It was gorgeous and hazy in the sunlight, on a red checkered blanket. “Did you hear that, Cam? Cam?” She shifted position under a sheet and lightweight blanket, and her body wrenched in pain. She snapped her eyes open and the memories flooded back.
She wasn’t in the apartment with Camille. No. She was in the apartment with Logan. Logan Farrow, that kindhearted, intriguing, protective man who had come to her rescue the night before.
Not only come to her rescue. He’d tended her injuries as tenderly as any medic, listened to her confession as sympathetically as any priest. And, at the end, during a moment of emotional intimacy, her soul had taken wing with his.
Logan had gathered up her bruised and battered body and carried her to his bedroom, settling her into the fresh sheets. He’d pulled the covers up to her shoulders, trailed the back of his hand delicately down her undamaged cheek and turned on the closet light, for security. She’d almost wished he’d stayed – just to hold her of course.
Chloe stirred and glanced around the room. A man’s room, filled with a man’s reassuring hodgepodge of items: books teetering on the bedside table, another pile mixed with some CD’s and DVD’s, a dark flannel robe tossed over the back of a chair, a pair of worn athletic shoes in the corner. Dark wood trim, cream-colored walls, smooth clean wooden floors. Nice.
Comforting. Solid as her guardian angel, himself.
She smiled and stretched, caught herself short at a stab of protest from the bandaged ribs, and curled back up like a shrimp.
She caught a glimpse of gray sky and falling rain through the open curtains. The patter against the window glass and the roof soothed her. What was it about a chilly, rainy day that made her feel snug and safe inside? It was as if nothing could get to her.
The numbers on the bedside clock flashed a luminous green 7:00. AM – hopefully not 7:00 PM. Beaten down and frazzled as she’d been, surely she hadn’t slept a solid twenty-four hours.
She hobbled into the bathroom, the fluorescent light and the medicine cabinet mirror reflected an alarming image: the tangle of dark hair, eyes swollen by tears – only a mother could love this, then again, hers didn’t. Pinkish-purple and gray-blue abrasions ran from her left temple to her chin and circled her mouth. Band-Aids covered the worst nicks but nothing except time would disguise the shiner.
“Ugh,” she muttered.
A careful swish with some of Logan’s minty mouthwash improved things a bit. She tied her hair up with a stray rubber band she found on the shelf and splashed her face with cool water. Logan’s green pin-striped pjs hung on her: fell past her fingertips, dragged over her insteps. She rolled back the cuffs quick. That was all she’d need—to trip and crack her fool head open.
The apartment was dead silent except for the soft patter of rain and heavy breathing, scissoring through the air. She tiptoed into the living room. Logan was sound asleep on the couch, rolled up in a blanket with only the top of his head poking out. Heavy breathing, indeed: more like snoring. She’d sure tired him out with all her drama. A pang of guilt wormed into her heart.
He was such a good guy.
She made her way into the kitchen and admired it with her hands on her hips. All the best stuff for Logan —what else would one expect of a Sous Chef? She set a pot of coffee brewing. Bread in the breadbox, butter and eggs in the fridge, covered pan and spatula in the cupboard. She was no slouch at kitchen gigs and she’d take pleasure in cooking for him, after what he’d done for her.
The scent of strong Columbian coffee perking away and the sizzle of hot grease drifted through the apartment.
The springs of
CRACK.
A brilliant flash of light woke her. The immediate boom of thunder followed, rattling the windows and shaking a glass vase on its shelf.
“Close call,” Chloe murmured drowsily. She’d been in a dream with him. It was gorgeous and hazy in the sunlight, on a red checkered blanket. “Did you hear that, Cam? Cam?” She shifted position under a sheet and lightweight blanket, and her body wrenched in pain. She snapped her eyes open and the memories flooded back.
She wasn’t in the apartment with Camille. No. She was in the apartment with Logan. Logan Farrow, that kindhearted, intriguing, protective man who had come to her rescue the night before.
Not only come to her rescue. He’d tended her injuries as tenderly as any medic, listened to her confession as sympathetically as any priest. And, at the end, during a moment of emotional intimacy, her soul had taken wing with his.
Logan had gathered up her bruised and battered body and carried her to his bedroom, settling her into the fresh sheets. He’d pulled the covers up to her shoulders, trailed the back of his hand delicately down her undamaged cheek and turned on the closet light, for security. She’d almost wished he’d stayed – just to hold her of course.
Chloe stirred and glanced around the room. A man’s room, filled with a man’s reassuring hodgepodge of items: books teetering on the bedside table, another pile mixed with some CD’s and DVD’s, a dark flannel robe tossed over the back of a chair, a pair of worn athletic shoes in the corner. Dark wood trim, cream-colored walls, smooth clean wooden floors. Nice.
Comforting. Solid as her guardian angel, himself.
She smiled and stretched, caught herself short at a stab of protest from the bandaged ribs, and curled back up like a shrimp.
She caught a glimpse of gray sky and falling rain through the open curtains. The patter against the window glass and the roof soothed her. What was it about a chilly, rainy day that made her feel snug and safe inside? It was as if nothing could get to her.
The numbers on the bedside clock flashed a luminous green 7:00. AM – hopefully not 7:00 PM. Beaten down and frazzled as she’d been, surely she hadn’t slept a solid twenty-four hours.
She hobbled into the bathroom, the fluorescent light and the medicine cabinet mirror reflected an alarming image: the tangle of dark hair, eyes swollen by tears – only a mother could love this, then again, hers didn’t. Pinkish-purple and gray-blue abrasions ran from her left temple to her chin and circled her mouth. Band-Aids covered the worst nicks but nothing except time would disguise the shiner.
“Ugh,” she muttered.
A careful swish with some of Logan’s minty mouthwash improved things a bit. She tied her hair up with a stray rubber band she found on the shelf and splashed her face with cool water. Logan’s green pin-striped pjs hung on her: fell past her fingertips, dragged over her insteps. She rolled back the cuffs quick. That was all she’d need—to trip and crack her fool head open.
The apartment was dead silent except for the soft patter of rain and heavy breathing, scissoring through the air. She tiptoed into the living room. Logan was sound asleep on the couch, rolled up in a blanket with only the top of his head poking out. Heavy breathing, indeed: more like snoring. She’d sure tired him out with all her drama. A pang of guilt wormed into her heart.
He was such a good guy.
She made her way into the kitchen and admired it with her hands on her hips. All the best stuff for Logan —what else would one expect of a Sous Chef? She set a pot of coffee brewing. Bread in the breadbox, butter and eggs in the fridge, covered pan and spatula in the cupboard. She was no slouch at kitchen gigs and she’d take pleasure in cooking for him, after what he’d done for her.
The scent of strong Columbian coffee perking away and the sizzle of hot grease drifted through the apartment.
The springs of
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