A cacophony of angry honking and yelling caught Honey’s attention.

Not another idiot who thinks traffic on Cannery Row would behave like normal city street traffic.

She looked to see who would be so rude in this throng of tourism and froze. Fear and panic stopped her breathing as she recognized the angry man at the center of the commotion.

She couldn’t think; she couldn’t breathe. Her heart thudded in her throat. “Oh, God, not him,” she said, barely a whisper. Her hand went to her neck, clasping her protective charm, her personal amulet.

Through the front windshield of a low-slung, silver sports car, she saw the once loved angles of Bryce Maplecourt’s face, twisted into a familiar visage of rage. Only this time, it wasn’t directed at her. This time those piercing blue eyes were blazing at another hapless victim of his undeserved vitriol.

Air flooded back into her lungs as she gasped and spun around, angling herself to face away from him.

“He didn’t see me, he didn’t see me, he didn’t see me.” She repeated over and over again under her breath as she rubbed the small charm between her fingers.

Honey focused on her breathing, trying to calm the surge of adrenaline. He didn’t see me, and he would never recognize me dressed this way. Honey wore a comfortable old hoodie, one that had been broken in with years of abuse and washing, one that had mystery stains spattered on it and faded color. The Honey Bryce had known would never wear a hoodie, let alone one she purchased for a buck at a local thrift shop. No—she calmed herself—Bryce didn’t see me, and Bryce wouldn’t recognize me if he did.

Careful to keep herself turned away from the street, Honey carefully made her way through the crowd.

When she was half a block from work, she ran. The need to distance herself from Bryce increasing with each step.

She entered the crowded coffee shop and immediately headed to the back, through the office, and into the employee washroom/janitor closet. She slammed the door shut then crouched in the shower.

She had gotten away. He hadn’t seen her. No matter how much she repeated this mantra, she could not shake the panicked thought that Bryce had followed her, that he somehow knew she was here.

Her breathing came in gasps. She gulped in air as she stared at the door.

Her eyes widened and her stomach lurched as she watched the door handle turn.

A comforting hand stroked along Honey’s back as she emptied the contents of her stomach into the toilet.

“Shhh.” Lana’s voice soothed.

“You came running in here so fast that I came to check on you. Are you doing okay? How much have you eaten today?” Lana’s concern brought tears to Honey’s eyes.

Honey finished retching and stood. She rinsed the sour taste of sick from her mouth before facing her boss. She gestured towards her throat as she explained, “This isn’t food. This is panic.” It was important to Honey that Lana knew she hadn’t slipped back into old unhealthy habits. Honey swallowed hard, then returned to the sink to rinse her mouth again.

“I saw Bryce.” Bryce who had fed on her insecurities like a vampire.

“Oh, shit,” Lana murmured.

“I don’t think he saw me. It’s just…” Honey’s voice quavered. “It’s just I haven’t seen him since… Ya’ know?”

Tears rolled down her cheeks.

“You want to take the afternoon off? I can keep an eye out to see if he’s around?”

Honey breathed deeply. “Yes. No. I don’t know. I need to hang the show. I don’t want to be around people, but I can’t afford to take the time off.”

Lana nodded. “How about you put on some headphones and hang the show. I’ll get Joyce to stay later, and she can deal with people.”

Honey nodded.

“Stay in here as long as you need to. I’m here for you. You know that, right?”

Honey nodded again.

Lana had been there ever since she first ran. Lana, who offered a job, guidance, and friendship.

Honey wouldn’t turn tail and run away, she wouldn’t do that. She needed to prove to Lana, and to herself, that Bryce and fear no longer controlled her. Her past did not dictate her future.

* * *

Morgan stepped into the locally-owned coffee shop, The Corner, looking for an afternoon shot of caffeine and enough calories to carry him through to dinner. He opened his senses to the smell of hot coffee, expecting the aroma to fortify his energy and calm his nerves. What he didn’t expect was to be assaulted by the distinct tangy scent of fear and panic.

The strong emotions came from a woman on a stepladder…a woman with the most perfect ass he had ever seen. Her panic had caught his attention; her shapely form held his stare and distracted him from what originally drew his eyes to her. He couldn’t help himself but to stop and watch the ass. It was pert, would fit his palms perfectly. The rest of her shape was perfect as well. The long back immediately above tapered to a narrow waist and curved up to slender shoulders and long delicate arms. A messy bun of strawberry blond hair topped off this vision. Morgan had an overwhelming urge to fight for her, to wrap her in his arms, and shield her from the horrors that had scared her so badly.

He shut down the extra senses he had opened, clearing his head of his protective tendencies. Shaking off the overreaction to her fear, he continued to focus on the female who held his attention. She reached forward trying to level a large, unframed painting. Her reach lifted the back of her purple shirt, exposing a thin slice of skin and revealing a wide and extremely colorful tattoo. Morgan immediately found himself wanting to see the full extent of the body decoration. Did it merely accentuate the small of her back or did it swirl around and caress her hip bones as it wound its way to her lower abs? Did it twine down one of her legs and hug her thigh or did it reach up her back and wrap around her shoulders?

A sharp “like what you are looking at?” from another of the coffee shop’s baristas brought him back to reality and his purpose for seeking caffeine.

“Uhm, yes I do,” he said with a glance at the barista and a quick clearing of his throat.

His gaze shifted back to the woman on the stepladder. She turned her head and stared at Morgan. Her pale grey-green eyes slightly squinted as she looked at him but widened as he made eye contact with her. She had sharp, high cheekbones and a delicately pointed chin. She was beautiful and belonged in paintings, not hanging them. And she shimmered. A soft golden light surrounded her.

Morgan shook his head to clear his vision. Uncharacteristically self-conscious, Morgan ran his hand through his hair. Julia had convinced him to cut his shoulder-length hair for an important meeting. She had said it would make him appear more professional. Now it grew in an uneven shag, either needing a trim or time to allow it to grow out. He preferred the longer length; he was giving his hair time. He also hadn’t shaved for a few days. Nothing like roguish stubble graced his chin; his beard was a scraggly mess. Unkempt, and in dusty work clothes, Morgan was painfully aware he was not making a good first impression, and it was suddenly very important to him that he do so. He would have to step up the charm and charisma.

The woman grabbed the level she had been using from the top of the canvas then jumped from the ladder and stood in front of Morgan. He noticed her exceptional height for a woman, even so he was still much taller. With the level grasped in one hand, she crossed her arms, tilted her head to one side then pointedly turned her attention to the other woman, and walked away.

Morgan knew he had been basically caught red-handed, staring at her backside, but in his defense, it was a very good ass.

Morgan watched as she walked past her coworker and disappeared into the back of the shop. He felt as if he had just been tag-teamed, passed off to the next player. He smirked. Fitting treatment for his blatant ogling.

“So you like art?” the other woman asked. Older, she had short, spiky black hair. Bold red-framed glasses emphasized her piercing blue eyes. Her eyebrows were raised and her expression said, convince me.

Without skipping a beat, he said, “I don’t normally like Abstract Expressionism, but, there is something about how this artist uses the gradation of color as a form of movement that you can follow. You see there in the upper left corner, how the color seems to move and descend toward the middle of the canvas?” He gestured to the referred-to areas on the canvas with his hand. “There it expands and the darker colors sink to the lower portion of the canvas. The artist is clearly demonstrating despair. But see, there in the middle towards the right. There is a spark of yellow, and you can follow it rising to the upper right corner of the canvas where there is an explosion of light and movement showing joy and hope.”

“You aren’t a friend of Finney’s. I know all his friends, so you aren’t here for the art. Or are you? You interpreted that piece perfectly. I swear you even used Finney’s exact words.”

“Yeah, I actually came in for a cup of hot strong caffeine but got distracted…” His eyes followed the graceful fluid motion of the pale beauty as she walked past the counter carrying another oversized painting into the front of the shop, “…by the…ah…art show.”

“Right, the art show. That’s Honey’s deal. She sets those up. Coffee, that’s my gig. By the way, I’m Lana. So tell me about this cup of caffeine you are seeking. I believe you said hot?”

“Hot and strong and in the biggest cup you sell,” Morgan said. He turned his head away from Lana at the counter as he continued to watch Honey attempt to hang another painting. Her arms appeared to be too delicate to wrangle the large canvas into position, yet Honey placed the painting level with skill and dexterity that said she clearly knew what she was doing.

“We would call that a large,” Lana said patronizingly.

“Great. One large, hot caffeine and some sugared carbohydrates, I’ll let you surprise me, just no chocolate.” Morgan walked away from the counter and over to where Honey was hanging the next painting.

“Is this another of Finney’s?” Morgan asked, nodding at the canvas.

Honey turned towards him, blinked her large green eyes, then left.

“Just noticing a consistency in color choices and painting techniques,” Morgan said to the painting. He raised his hands, gesturing his defeat and returned to the counter.

The barista smirked. “She can’t hear you.” She tapped her ears. “Headphones. If you want to discuss color and technique, you really should come by tomorrow night. We’re having an opening reception for the artist.”

“Sounds like an interesting invitation. What time?” Morgan pulled out his wallet to pay for his coffee and the lemon bar she’d selected for him. He looked at the thin, delicately dusted with powdered sugar dessert. “I said surprise me, didn’t I? I don’t do lemon. Uhm, can you throw in a slice of that carrot cake to-go, as well? Thanks.”

“My lemon bars are famous, I’ll have you know.” Lana opened the refrigerated case and extracted a healthy hunk of cake. She set it on the counter and swathed it in a sheet of plastic wrap. “The opening starts at seven, but things won’t really get underway until about eight. She’ll be here, and she won’t have headphones on.”

“Then I will see you tomorrow night at eight.” With a nod of thanks, Morgan picked up his coffee and cake and headed back to work.

Morgan unwrapped the carrot cake as he walked out the front door. He glanced back as he turned to head up the street to the construction site. He caught a glimpse of the woman named Honey motioning towards him as if discussing his finer attributes with the other woman. He huffed a silent laugh. Morgan looked forward to tomorrow evening. The art might be tedious, but it would give him a chance to interact with the aloof Honey.

His phone rang. He pressed the Talk button.

“Palatine.”

“Do you even know who your new client is?” Julia’s voice demanded.

“Yes, why?”

“Do you know what your new client is, Morgan?”

“Very rich. Why?”

“Seriously. I just found out who our client is, and I have concerns regarding your safety on the site now.”

“I’ve met with her several times. I know who and what she is. We have a mutual goal. She hasn’t had issue with me, and I see no reason to have issue with her.”

“Please tell me you aren’t all rugged mountain man on the job. I would be embarrassed if the client saw you. No need feeding into their concepts of you being some feral wolf-man.”

Morgan scoffed at her accurate description. He enjoyed taking a break from the rigors of daily shaving while onsite. “No need to worry, I’ll clean up before she ever does an onsite inspection.”

“I’m concerned you let this project go through, knowing who the client is.”

“You’re sounding prejudiced and paranoid, Julia.”

“Just concerned. She can be dangerous.”

“So can I.” Morgan ended the call. He looked into his empty cup of coffee. When had he drunk it all?