Atlanta, Georgia, USA - One week later
There came a point, in dealing with late-night work crises, when stabbing one's eyes out with a pen started to look like a viable - even preferable - alternative to spending even another moment staring at paperwork. Charlotte Carver had passed that point about two hours ago.
Her vision blurred as she gazed down at the pile of files in front of her on the coffee table. Her temples throbbed. Her throat ached. And out of the corner of her eye, her laptop screen appeared to flicker. Was that normal? Or had her mind finally cracked? She rubbed her eyes as she stumbled to her feet. She needed caffeine. Immediately.
The fifteen-foot walk to her kitchen felt a lot longer than it should have. Her gaze flicked to the clock on the microwave as she fumbled with the coffee maker. Midnight. How the hell was it only midnight? It felt like she'd been awake for two days straight.
You nearly have, she reminded herself. After all, her boss had called her at two o'clock this morning to inform her of her giant fuck-up. And even though it was Saturday, she'd spent half of it in the office and the other half of it on her couch surrounded by paperwork. From the looks of it, she'd be pulling an all-nighter - assuming she didn't pass out on the floor.
Ah, the adventures of working for Ingarry Insurance. She let out an exhausted, bitter laugh as her coffee pot burbled to life. Just when she'd thought her job couldn't get any duller, the universe had decided to prove her wrong in the most spectacularly awful way possible: Oh, you hate your job? Let's see how you feel when you're about to lose it! Time to stop taking it for granted, hm? Oh, and by the way - fuck you.
She might be brain-dead with exhaustion, but she'd gotten the message loud and clear.
She rubbed her forehead as she waited for her caffeine fix. The kitchen spun a little, and she steadied herself on the counter as her gaze darted around, looking for somewhere to focus. She finally decided on the large map hanging over her cluttered dining table, and she felt a small but welcome bit of peace as her eyes roamed over the map's hand-drawn lines.
She had a thing for maps the way Mrs. Greaves next door had a thing for cats. Old maps or new, topographic landscapes or Mercator projections - she collected any and all of them, and hung them on her walls for inspiration. This particular one held a special place in her heart - she and her mom had found it together in an antique shop. The thick paper was yellow with age and fraying at the corners, and some of the original ink had faded, but it was gorgeous. The cartographer, whoever he - or she - was, had filled the land with tiny illustrations of beasts and filled the oceans with serpents. When she was in college, she used to stare at it and imagine the day she'd have the money and freedom to go see all of those places for herself.
Now? She was two weeks from her thirtieth birthday and the only time she'd set foot out of the country was when her cousin had gotten married in Ottawa. The only adventure she'd had in recent memory was that disastrous blind date three months ago where the guy had tried to bring his pet iguana to dinner with them.
One day, she told herself. But she'd been telling herself the same thing for years now. One day she'd see the world. One day she'd find a job that didn't threaten to suck her soul right out of her. One day she'd do something exciting. Something crazy.
But in the meantime, she still had credit card debt from her mom's funeral and a student loan balance that didn't seem to be getting any smaller. Charlotte didn't have any extra money to be throwing at lavish overseas adventures. And funds might be even tighter if she couldn't fix her fuck-up with the Richmond Museum's claim tonight. She was lucky Mr. Elliot hadn't fired her on the spot.
She was trying to motivate herself to go back to the couch and continue working when a knock sounded at the front door.
She froze, her hand on the coffee pot. Who the heck would show up at her door at this hour? Her boss still had plenty of things to shout at her, she knew, but he hadn't had any problems so far with expressing his thoughts over the phone.
She'd seen enough crime procedural shows to know that late-night knocks usually ended up with somebody getting murdered. But when the pounding came again - more insistent this time - she knew that her visitor wasn't just going to go away. She grabbed the steaming pot of freshly brewed coffee - just in case she needed a weapon - and made her way slowly to the front door.
"Who is it?" she called when she reached the foyer.
The reply was soft and slightly muffled. "It's me."
She froze in her tracks. No. It's not possible.
She crossed the rest of the foyer and threw open the door.
There he was. Every last infuriating, delectable, heart-breaking inch of him. On this of all nights, Jackson North had decided to show up at her house, and he leaned against the door frame grinning at her as if he'd completely forgotten the fact that, only nine months ago, he'd walked out of her life without even a goodbye.
She was tempted to throw the coffee at his head.
Unfortunately, she found herself too stunned to move. Her heart thudded against her ribs as she fumbled for something to say. "Why - what are you doing here?"
"What, can't an old friend stop by?" he said, still wearing that grin. Looked like he was as cocky as ever.
And as attractive as ever, she thought, though she quickly shoved that observation back down. He'd gained some muscle since the last time she'd seen him - the white T-shirt he wore was stretched tight across his new, broader frame - and his sandy brown hair was a lot shorter, too, buzzed down close to his scalp on the sides. But that wasn't the only change in him. He looked tired, slightly weathered - as if he'd sailed to the ends of the earth and back. But his brown eyes still shone with the same devilish gleam, the one that had warned her from the very first time they met that this man would be trouble.
"It's midnight," she said, still trying to make sense of his sudden appearance. Still trying to calm her breathing.
"A little late for coffee, isn't it?" he said, nodding toward the pot in her hand.
"I've had a long day." And I'm about to have an even longer night, with or without this added complication. "I don't have the time for this. Why are you here?"
He straightened. He'd always towered over her, but today - maybe it was the extra muscles - he seemed even taller.
"Can I come in?" he asked.
"No," she said automatically.
There was only one reason a guy showed up at his ex's door in the middle of the night, and it wasn't to exchange pleasantries. While she could definitely have used a little stress relief right now - and God, would sex with Jackson bring all kinds of relief - he was the last person she wanted back in her life, even for a night. He'd broken her heart. Touching him was not an option - unless he gave her an excuse to punch him, which she would gladly take.
But there was something strange about the way he was acting. He glanced behind him before leaning closer. "Look, I know this isn't ideal, Charlie, but I can explain everything inside."
"Explain what?" She blocked his path. "You aren't coming through this door unless you tell me why you're here."
He threw another glance back toward the street, then leaned even closer - close enough that for a brief, heart-pounding second, she thought he was going to try to kiss her. Instead, he moved his lips to her ear, and her chest tightened as his warm breath hit her skin.
"This is going to sound odd," he said, his voice so soft that she could barely hear him, even considering his nearness. "But I need to borrow an old gift I gave you. Or better yet - let me buy it off of you."
She blinked. Whatever she'd expected him to say next, it wasn't this. "What?"
"For your birthday last year," he said. "You know, I gave you that old atlas. I'd like to buy it off of you."
That didn't make things any clearer. "Why?"
"It's a little complicated."
Complicated didn't even begin to describe this situation - or the things his sudden appearance seemed to be doing to her body. Her galloping heart had ridden all the way up into her throat, and she pushed him away.
He was no longer wearing that cocky smile. Instead, there was a seriousness in his expression that made her stomach tighten.
Even when they'd dated all those months ago, there'd always been something dangerous about Jackson - something she knew she should avoid, but that drew her in all the same. She'd never dated anyone who made her feel so restless. So alive. Sometimes he'd be away for days at a time with only the vaguest of excuses, and often as not he'd return with injuries and bruises he'd never explain. She never asked. She wasn't sure she wanted to know.
But it was hard to keep the questions out of her head now. What was he involved in? And what did an atlas have to do with anything?
"Is it worth money?" she asked finally. She'd sold almost everything of real value she had to help with bills after her mom passed, but she'd never suspected that atlas might be worth anything significant. "Are you in some sort of trouble?"
"Please, Goose. I'll pay you whatever you want for it."
Maybe it was the use of his old pet name for her, or maybe it was the look in his eyes - desperate, and unlike anything she'd ever seen in his face before - but she found herself stepping aside and letting him into her home.
The moment he was inside, he turned and locked the door behind them.
"Where is it?" he asked.
"Wait in there," she said, setting the coffee pot on a side table and gesturing toward the living room. "I'll go grab it."
For a moment, he looked like he might argue. But then he nodded and went into the other room.
What are you doing? Charlotte asked herself as she climbed the stairs to her bedroom. You shouldn't have let him in. And he hasn't even given you a real reason for why he's here. But the look she saw in his eyes haunted her, and she knew, no matter what was going on, that she wouldn't have had the heart to turn him away. Because you're an idiot. And he still affects you, even after what he did.
There was a lump in her throat by the time she stood in front of the bookcase in her room. She found the atlas easily. Bound in leather with gold embossing on the spine, it stood out amid her collection of ratty paperbacks and well-read travel books. The atlas was designed to look like an antique, but inside, it was quite modern. While there were a handful of prints of gorgeous, hand-drawn maps like the one in her kitchen, most of the images were contemporary and up-to-date. She'd spent hours poring through the pages.
The knot inside of her twisted as she let the atlas fall open in her hands. She'd loved this gift. Not just because it was from the man she'd thought herself madly in love with - an acknowledgment that stung, even now - or because it added to her ever-growing collection of one day maps. But because she'd been able to tell that the previous owner of this atlas had loved it too. Jackson had purchased it used, and the previous owner - whose name was an illegible scribble on the bookplate inside the front cover - had left his mark on every page. On some pages, it was little notes; on others, it was mysterious stains; and on still others, it was small sketches of birds or constellations or, in one case, a naked woman.
This atlas had a heart, and she felt like the previous owner had been a kindred spirit. She liked to imagine that he'd carted this book around with him on his wild adventures, and every mark on these pages was a souvenir. Maybe that faint brown blotch on page 103 next to the map of the United Kingdom was a drop of some fine British tea, or that tear on the corner of the map of Nepal came from the wind whipping the page out of his hand on the side of Mt. Everest. She knew every mark in this book, had invented a dozen stories for each.
She didn't want to let it go.
But maybe it's better this way, she told herself. Even after all this time, look how much Jackson still affects you. It's better to cut all reminders of him out of your life completely.
She repeated that to herself as she descended the stairs. She'd give him the atlas and get him out of her house. He didn't deserve any more of her time than she'd already given him. He doesn't deserve the atlas, either, said a small voice in her mind, and while part of her agreed, she just wanted this over with so she could get on with her life.
But when she reached the living room, she felt herself waver once more. Just the sight of him in her house again was enough to take her breath away, to bring a whole flood of emotions and memories back to the surface: Jackson kissing her for the first time. Jackson holding her close and brushing away her tears when she'd learned her mom's cancer had returned. Jackson making love to her and then spending hours afterward sharing whispered secrets in the dark.
And then, at last, came the memory of that final morning, when she'd rolled over in the predawn light and found his side of the bed empty. Normally they'd woken up at the same time - often still tangled up in each other - but that morning her gently grasping hand had brushed against nothing but a scrap of paper.
She'd read that note so many times in the following days that the words were still burned in her mind:
Charlie -
This wasn't how I wanted to do this. There are a hundred things I know I should say, and a hundred more I want to say but know I shouldn't. But the truth is I know none of them will make this right. I knew the moment I met you that this would be a mistake, that I'd only end up hurting you, but I couldn't help myself. I was selfish. I still am. Which is my only consoling thought - that you're absolutely better off without me. I wish I could give you a better explanation than that, but I can't, and for that I'll be forever sorry. I can only say that I hope you find happiness. I hope you live all of your dreams, big and small. And I hope you find that man who can love and support you the way you deserve to be loved and supported. I'm sorry I ever let you believe that man might be me.
Her eyes burned even now, remembering those words and the sharp confusion that had followed. Remembering the pain that had swept through her when she'd tried calling his number and found it disconnected. Jackson hadn't just left her - he'd completely disappeared. Removed every trace of himself from her house and her life.
All except one, she thought, looking down at the atlas. But it looked like he was here to finish the job.
But before she could take another step into the room, she realized he was looking at her - staring, more accurately. As she was staring at him. Her cheeks went hot and she quickly glanced away.
Jackson cleared his throat. "Rough night?"
She risked a glance up, confused, then realized he was gesturing toward the papers scattered on her coffee table.
And end tables.
And floor.
In fact, the whole room was a disaster. She had files stacked on every flat surface, and among them sat the half-empty cartons of the Chinese food she'd forced herself to order when she'd realized she hadn't eaten all day. She also counted at least four coffee mugs on various end tables.
And that was just the room - that didn't even take into account how she looked. She'd pulled on her sweats the moment she'd gotten home from the office, knowing she'd be up all night at this. Her hair was in a messy bun on top of her head - though she was just realizing that a number of tendrils had come lose and hung like wavy octopus legs down her ears and neck. The only makeup she wore was the mascara she'd thrown on on her way out the door this morning, and considering how many times she'd rubbed her eyes in the last hour, she wouldn't be surprised if that was all over her face by now. No wonder Jackson had been staring at her.
It doesn't matter how you look, she told herself, crossing to the coffee table and clearing off her things. Why do you even care what he thinks anymore? The weak part of her mind answered immediately: Because when the guy who dumped you shows up at your door, you want him to know exactly what he's missing. The only thing Jackson would be thinking right now was, Thank God I escaped this when I did.
The atlas was still tucked beneath her arm, but now that it was time to give it to him, she was having trouble handing it over.
"Charlie..." he said softly, in a tone that was almost apologetic. It made her heart ache unbearably.
She had to be strong. Just hand it over and push him out the door before she dissolved into a pathetic mess of tears at his feet.
"Here," she said, thrusting out the atlas without looking at him. "Just take it."
But he didn't. And when she glanced up to see why, she found he wasn't even looking at her anymore, but rather toward the back door. His shoulders were rigid and his jaw was tight.
She followed his gaze but saw nothing. "What are - "
Before she even realized what was happening, he'd grabbed her and clamped a hand across her mouth.
"Shh." The sound in her ear was little more than a breath. Her back was pressed against Jackson's chest, her body trapped within the tight circle of his arm. Her heart was beating in her ears, and she was afraid to even breathe. What was he doing? What the hell was going on?
The last time she'd been this close to Jackson was the last night they'd spent together. He smelled the same, and her body reacted the same way to his nearness - in a terrifying explosion of familiarity and desire. But he felt different now, felt stronger. She could feel the raw power in his arms around her, and she wasn't sure whether that frightened or excited her.
But before she could analyze that reaction too closely, she heard it - the small click click of someone fiddling with a lock.
He held her so that they both faced the back door. Currently, the blinds were closed, so they couldn't see out into the darkness of the backyard. But she could see the lock moving slightly, trying to come undone. Cold washed down her spine. Someone was trying to break into her house.
Jackson's mouth was still at her ear.
"I want you to take the atlas and go out the front door," he said. "Get as far away from here as you can. Don't stop for anyone." Just as suddenly as he'd grabbed her, his arms dropped.
She stood there, stunned, then whispered, "What about you?"
"I'll find you. Go!" He practically pushed her toward the door.
She still had no idea what was going on - What the hell had Jackson gotten her involved in? - but she saw the look in his eyes. Behind the fierce determination in his expression was something that almost looked like fear. She wasn't going to question what he'd told her to do.
She raced toward the door, pausing only to reach down and grab her purse from the floor. As soon as she got out of here, she'd be calling the police.
The moment her fingers touched the handle, she heard the back door fly open.
"Run!" shouted Jackson when she started to look back.
She did.
She threw open the door and bolted out into the night. Almost immediately, she heard a shout from around the side of the house - and then a crash from her living room, but she didn't dare look behind her. Her car was parked right next to the mailbox, but even as she fumbled for her keys in her purse, a dark figure came running at her across the lawn. She didn't have time to find them.
She turned and raced down the street, gripping the atlas for dear life. Footsteps pounded behind her - one pair? Two? - and she couldn't think of anything but get away, get away, get away. When she reached the end of her street, she turned down another. And then another. She knew she should scream for help, but every ounce of her air was going toward running faster, harder. When she opened her mouth, all that came out was a strangled croak, and even that made her chest hurt. Soon she was gasping for breath, and even still the footsteps were gaining.
She never stopped. Never slowed. She ducked around cars and behind hedges until she was lost in her own neighborhood. Finally, just when she thought her lungs were going to explode, she found herself at the neighborhood's clubhouse. Everything was locked at this hour, but she threw herself behind the building's air conditioning unit and dropped down to the ground, hiding as best she could.
For several long, terrifying seconds, she heard nothing but her own pounding pulse. Then footsteps approached - two pairs, for sure - and she held her breath as they neared and then passed her, circling around the side of the clubhouse.
Those moments after they faded away were the longest of her life. She was too afraid to move, even though the strap of her purse was twisted around her arm and the atlas was pressed uncomfortably into her hip. She bit down on her bottom lip to keep from gasping for breath, even though her lungs were still begging for air. Her mind whirled.
She'd known Jackson was trouble, but she'd always thought it was more in the guaranteed-to-break-your-heart sort of way - and her experience had certainly proved her right in that respect. But this? This was beyond any of her imaginings. She had people breaking into her house and chasing her through the streets and she didn't even know why.
A twig snapped behind her. She jumped - but it was too late. A figure appeared above her, and before she could scramble away, he grabbed her and pulled her back. And a hand clamped across her lips before she ever had the chance to scream.
