Façade Outtake—Carlisle

Selling tchotchkes in a town so small it wasn't even incorporated was never part of my long-term goals. My life had changed drastically in the past year, and not simply because all the plans I made with Bella went to shit. No, the thanks—and the blame—could be laid on Jasper's shoulders. The prick had paid off his old comáre to claim she witnessed me killing Gianna. I snorted as I thought about it, picking up a brass candlestick and wiping down the glass shelf under it. I pictured taking out a hit on him in the prison they'd buried him in, but, of course, that wouldn't happen. My movements were locked down so tight I couldn't take a crap without the marshals knowing about it. I had done nothing as crass as shooting that puttana in my living room. I was much more inventive than that, and there was absolutely no chance that her body would ever be found.

The chime on the door tinkled, and I schooled my face into that of the pleasant shopkeeper. I continued to swipe at the glass shelf, holding a crystal duck in my hand as I looked up to greet the browser.

Dark shoulder length hair was all I could make out from my position. “Good afternoon. What can I help you find?”

I set down the duck and picked up a short glass vase. The woman turned, a small smile on her face. I felt myself growing hot as I realized it was Dr. Platt. The vase slipped from hands that had gone sweaty at her appearance.

“Merda!” I mumbled under my breath as it hit the floor and shattered—only I wasn't as quiet as I thought I was.

“I didn't know you were Italian. Oh dear, what a mess.”

She was there, maybe half a foot away, looking down at the broken glass. I could only stand there and stare at her. Her complexion was the classic peaches and cream; her eyes a smoky gray. Her brows were drawn together as she looked back up at me.

“Do you have a dustpan?”

I blinked. Get it together, coglione. “O-of course. Sorry. Don't touch that, I'll be right back.”

I hurried behind the counter to retrieve the broom and dustpan, berating myself for acting like a fool. Dr. Platt had caught my eye the first week I'd moved here. My official cover story was that I chose to relocate to a small midwest town after living most of my life in the hustle and bustle of the Big Apple. I'd been a docent, then an assistant curator, finally being promoted to executive museum curator, which was the position I'd retired from. Unfortunately, I knew fuck-all about art and artifacts, so I kept to myself and tried not to give away the truth. I wasn't really expected to make friends or have relationships, since I was being punished and protected at the same time.

I made my way back to the glass shattered in a dozen pieces on the hardwood floor of the tourist trap boutique I ran. The beautiful doctor was no longer there, but I knew she hadn't left because I hadn't heard the chime announce her exit. I squatted and began picking up the larger chunks. I had about half of it done when I heard her behind me.

“Do you need any help?”

Unfortunately for me, I had a potty mouth when I was caught off guard, and it always slipped out in Italian. The shard of glass I was gingerly picking up sliced through my palm as I gripped it without thinking. “Figlio di puttana!”

“Oh God, I didn't mean to sneak up on you! I seem to think I'm as noisy as a bull when apparently I’m more like a ninja.” She knelt next to me and took my now-bleeding hand in hers. “That's going to need stitches.”

I groaned. My day was going to shit real fast. Though, if Dr. Platt kept holding my hand in hers, maybe things could be salvaged. She smelled like a sun-drenched beach on a tropical island.

“No worries, I'll take you to the clinic and do it myself. It's the least I can do since I surprised you both times.”

I swallowed. “Aren't you a veterinarian?”

She laughed, and I liked the way she wasn't afraid to outright guffaw. “Stitches are stitches, regardless of the mammal.”

Snitches get stitches, is what went through my mind. I was only here because I was a snitch. “I would appreciate that.”

I sure as hell didn't want to go into the local medical clinic and have to show them any parts of my body with scars that couldn't easily be explained. In general, I was quite healthy, and any illness that required a doctor was scheduled through the marshals at their demand. I wasn't allowed to give my health history to anyone, or get naked with anyone, or speak about my true past in any way, shape, or form.

In short, I was imprisoned without being in jail.

The good doctor waited while I wrapped a bunch of paper towels around my hand and locked up the shop. Since it was only a few businesses down and across the street, we walked side by side. I kept my hand cradled close to my chest to staunch the flow of blood, flicking my gaze over at her every few seconds. She was the type of woman I could see spending a good portion of my time with. She was obviously smart and compassionate, just based on her occupation, and she was lovely and well dressed. I suppose she was dressed for work and off on a break, but I enjoyed her taste in clothes.

“Here we go,” she said as she unlocked the doors to the vet office. I followed her down the hall as she flipped on a few lights. “I didn't have any patients for the remainder of the day, and I thought I’d spend some time browsing your shop.” She led me into an exam room and patted the metal table.

I snorted. “I’m not sitting up there.”

She laughed. “It was worth a shot. Here, you stand by the counter or sit in the chair, whichever is better for you.”

“I’ll stand, Doctor Platt.”

“Please, just call me Esme.”

I felt warm under the collar at the sound of her first name. “You can call me Mark.” Even to my ears, I sounded like a liar as I gave her my false name. I wondered if she was attuned to insincerity.

“It makes sense, considering that your shop is Mark’s on the Water.”

She was gathering medical supplies as we spoke, and I stared at the curve of her neck and the long line of her back under her fitted sweater. She set everything on the counter and donned a pair of latex gloves before gently taking my forearm to bring my hand closer to her. She unwrapped the paper towels and then used a wet cloth to dab at the blood.

“Sterile saline,” she murmured as she worked to clean my skin.

She was bent over my hand, and I wanted so much to kiss the crown of her head. Her hair shined in the overhead lighting, causing the chestnut strands to glow. She was the most attractive woman I’d ever encountered.

I concentrated on her scent and her warmth as she numbed the area with a topical anesthetic and started stitching. I wasn't completely unused to wounds that required stitches, and it didn't hurt in the slightest. Her body heat collided with mine, and my heartbeat sped up.

“Are you nervous?” she asked without looking up.

“No, why?”

“Since I have your arm in close proximity to my body, I can feel your pulse.”

“Oh.” I chuckled, but it came out sounding strangled. “No, it’s not nerves, it’s…”

She looked up at me then, meeting my gaze directly. Those gray eyes of hers were like Puget Sound in a heavy storm. I wasn't sure if I should outright tell her it was because I was turned on, or if that would be crossing a line. Even worse, I wasn't supposed to get close to anyone. Yet, the only thing I wanted was to get naked with the veterinarian.

“Esme, I have feelings for you.”

She quirked a brow. “What kind of feelings?”

I cleared my throat. “The kind that are pretty inappropriate for someone you just officially met.” She dropped my hand, and I brushed a strand of hair out of her face. “The kind I’ve felt since the first day I saw you through my shop window.”

“I have inappropriate feelings for you, too,” she admitted quietly as she bandaged my palm over the small, neat stitches.

Without thinking of the consequences, I leaned in and kissed her. I didn't bother to make it gentle, instead pressing against her until she backed into the wall. Her skin was as soft as it looked as I stroked her cheek, and everything about her filled my senses.

“I live upstairs,” she mumbled against my mouth. “Come with me.”

I knew I shouldn’t. “Yes.”

At that moment, it didn't matter to me that I was breaking the rules. I had never cared for rules one way or the other, and though the stakes were higher, I gave in to what I was feeling for Esme. From the moment I’d moved into town, she’d caught my eye. In the grocery store, on the street, when I collected mail from my p.o. box. She was graceful, she was beautiful, and I needed to make her mine.

It wasn't until we were enjoying wine and cheese in her kitchen overlooking the quaint river that our town was famous for that I decided I’d better say something to warn her.

“I have to admit something, but I can’t give you all the details.”

She stopped moving mid-sip. “Don't tell me you have a wife and kids tucked away somewhere in another town.”

The apprehension on her face was clear. “No, it’s not that.” I took a deep breath and let it rush out of me along with the words. “I can’t continue seeing you unless we get married.”

“Uh, is this some kind of cult thing that you’re caught up in?” She frowned, and I almost laughed. Almost.

“No, no. I just—there are things—I can’t—”

“Okay, slow down. Why would I marry you? I mean, yeah, the sex was magnificent, but one time and now we need to say I do?”

“It’s kind of a spousal privilege type situation.”

She set her wine glass on the counter with a snap. “What did you do?”

I held my hands up, palm out. “I can’t tell you.”

“Did you really move here from New York?”

“Yes.” Again, to my ears it was obvious I was lying.

Esme sighed. “So, if I might be in love with a stranger, I’d better marry him so that I can date him?”

“Something like that.” I put my hands on her shoulders, and she didn't shy away. “I know it’s a lot to take in, but you just said you’re falling in love with me. I can’t even explain what I feel every time I catch a glimpse of you.”

“Lust.”

I touched her lips with mine. “More than that.”

“If I say yes?”

“It’ll happen immediately. Do you have any family?”

She shook her head, looking into my eyes. “No. I saw the scars.”  She bit her lip. “Am I going to run screaming after you tell me?”

“Probably. Can you live with that? If I was a monster, can you live with me?”

“If you were, past tense, I think I can deal with it. You're mild-mannered Mark to me.”

“I have to warn you now, I did not live the life of mild-mannered Mark.”

She searched my eyes. “It must be serious if you can’t speak of it, but I appreciate that you’re trying to warn me.” She kissed me. “You’re going to run Mark’s on the Water for the rest of your days, living in Fish Creek and never breaking the law again?”

“Not so much as jaywalking. I can guarantee it.” The marshals would guarantee that. After they punished me for slipping up and letting a woman see me naked.

“I think I’d like to give us a chance.”

“You’re intrepid, aren't you, Esme?”

“That’s a good word for it.”

“I love you, Esme.” I wrapped her up in my arms, tucking her head under my chin. For her, I would spend my remaining years being the best man I could be.

“I believe you. It’s likely I could be there soon. I’ve watched you from afar, and I find you intriguing.”

“So, is that a yes?”

“It’s a yes.”