Too Close to Resist. Nicole Helm

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      CHAPTER FOUR

      GRACE STOOD IN front of her easel, frowning. Somehow the idea of painting the river below on a sunny day had morphed into something dark and violent.

      She’d had another nightmare last night. Was it a nightmare when you were replaying an actual moment in your life? When it was just reliving a night that was supposed to be a simple third date but had turned into the culminating moment of the next seven years?

      Grace squeezed her eyes shut. Seven years. This wasn’t supposed to keep happening. At this rate, she’d have to go back to therapy, and she really didn’t want to do that. Therapy had been great for her. It had helped her leave the house again and trust people again. Well, mostly. It had worked.

      If she went back, it would be admitting defeat. Barry would win. If she had to have someone help her out of this pit of fear again, seven years were wasted.

      She didn’t want to remember, but the dream, the actual memory, crept back into her mind, infiltrated all those defenses she worked so hard at. Even the paintbrush in her hand and desperate pleas of her mind couldn’t shake it away.

      You think you can break up with me?

      She could still remember, dream or no dream, the exact sound of Barry’s voice when he’d said those words. Cold. Detached. Creepy because he’d been so absolutely incredulous. As if it were so unheard of. He was in disbelief.

      And then he’d gotten angry. Quickly. His expression had gone from wide-eyed incredulity to squinty-eyed fury.

      You don’t get to break up with me, Grace. I’m in charge here.

      The first blow had hit her face before she could even brace for it. It had been so unexpected, so out of the realm of her expectations she couldn’t even flinch away. His fist had just plowed into her face.

      Pain and shock and fear. So much damn fear. Maybe she’d held up her arms trying to protect herself. Maybe she’d tried to fight back. The rest was really a blur. His fists. Pain. Crying. Yes, she’d definitely started crying because she didn’t know what to do, or how to stop it.

      Then blackness descended. She couldn’t see, she could barely breathe. Every inch of her body was on fire with a sharp, blinding pain. Something connected with her rib cage, sending another shock wave of agony through her body.

      Nausea coated her stomach and she could feel the sickness rising, but she couldn’t move her head, couldn’t speak, couldn’t cry. Both in the memory and in the present, she was paralyzed with the fear and pain.

      Suddenly the pain left, replaced by a shocking cold nothing. You’re dead, her mind said matter-of-factly, and for a moment she was glad. So glad the pain was over. What did it matter if she was dead?

      But other people’s voices began to silence her own. Don’t leave us, Gracie. Mom’s voice. We love you, Gracie. Dad’s voice. Fight. Fight for it. We need you. Jacob’s voice.

      The pain rushed back, so quickly she couldn’t breathe, but when she did manage a strangled breath the pain was soothed by their words of love. It was what had brought her back, those words. She knew that for sure. And there was a slight comfort in that, but it was a kind of comfort that had her sobbing in the here and now.

      She could hear the fear in their voices, and she hated being part of the reason they’d been afraid. Hated that Barry had given them this kind of gut clenching pain that seven years hadn’t erased.

      Those years between then and now had not dulled the intensity of the dream/memory, only its frequency. It made sense she’d have it again knowing Barry was free. Free to do whatever he liked. But she hated that they were all living with this again.

      She wiped at the tears on her cheeks, looking at the painting, now dark and dreary. She wouldn’t let him have this, too. He had her dreams, her memories, her fear. But not this.

      “Leak into my art all you want,” she muttered. “You will not win.” Grace carefully cleaned her brushes and put everything away. She’d break for lunch, call Mom for the daily check-in and come back ready to paint something different. Jacob’s interior decorator and administrative assistant were adopting a baby soon. She’d paint them something bright and cheerful as a gift.

      Grace headed down the stairs to the kitchen, but the ebb and flow of conversation stopped her at the bottom. When she peeked around the corner, Kyle and Jacob and a handful of their employees were sitting at the table.

      It was odd to feel so out of place. She’d met everyone at the table many times, but it was rarely during business hours. She’d never walked in on what appeared to be a meeting.

      And maybe she was too raw, too beaten down by the things that plagued her to force the kind of confidence she didn’t really have.

      To face Kyle after he’d been so decent and comforted her. Let her cry on his shoulder. Kyle. Of all people.

      Grace looked down at her faded jeans and paint-splattered henley. The group at the table were all dressed in business casual, looking pretty and put together. Leah, the electrician, was wearing jeans and work boots, but even she looked more like a businesswoman than Grace with her hair pulled back into a perfect ponytail and silver hoop earrings.

      Grace swallowed down the unwelcome wave of intimidation. Men with big fists and muscles were intimidating. People with college degrees and business savvy and elegant wardrobes were not.

      Her feet didn’t listen, because they refused to move.

      “Gracie, don’t be shy. We’re just having a working lunch. Come on in and help yourself to whatever.”

      Grace tried not to wince at Jacob’s words or Kyle’s brief glance. A glance that seemed to scoff at the idea of her being shy. Which was right. She wasn’t shy in the least.

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