His Summer Intern

  Jessa Kane

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Epilogue

  1

  Juno

  Oh God.

  Oh God.

  Don’t stop running.

  Whatever I do, I can’t stop.

  My lungs are burning and the tree branches are leaving scrapes on my face, my arms. Blisters have long since formed on the backs of my heels and fatigue plagues every one of my limbs. But I won’t let them catch me. I can’t go back there.

  The howls of misery haunt my ears even now. The grimy bars on the windows. The utter loneliness and monotony and sadness. I can’t. I can’t do it anymore.

  The forest ends and I stumble to a stop, my breath wheezing in and out of my lungs.

  A house?

  The place where I’ve been living for two years seemed like it could only exist at the ends of the earth, so I expected to be running for another couple of hours until I got anywhere. Perhaps I should keep going. Get farther away. When they come looking for me, they’ll probably check the closest houses, won’t they? Or have I traveled far enough?

  Time is hazy.

  The back door of the house flies open. A shotgun muzzle eases out through the opening and points square between my eyes. And I almost laugh. I really do.

  Out of frying pan, into the fire.

  A floorboard creaks and the door edges wider, revealing the man holding the weapon.

  Even in my exhausted, panicky state, I recognize that he’s a force of nature. He’d have to duck to exit the house without knocking his head into the doorframe. In a sweat-stained white T-shirt, he looks like he’s been working out, well-maintained muscles stretching the sleeves. Are those dog tags beneath the cotton? Yeah. He’s military for sure. I spent some time on a base growing up and there’s no mistaking his poise. He’s killed before. His hands are steady, black hair shorn tight to his scalp.

  His slate-gray eyes are meaner and fiercer than any I’ve seen. Worse than the head nurse’s, even. They look down the barrel of the gun, taking my measure. When he’s determined I’m not a threat, he straightens slowly, lowering the weapon. “Are you my intern?” he rasps.

  My immediate impulse is to say yes.

  This is a man people don’t like to disappoint.

  He’s also a man to whom lying is useless. I can see that already.

  One sweep of those sniper’s eyes and he’s picked me apart. Sorted me like laundry.

  “Did you run here or something?”

  I open my mouth to respond, though I have no idea what I’m going to say…and I find I can’t speak. There’s no saliva in my mouth. My throat is coated in dust, and Jesus…dizziness is setting in. Oh lord, I’m so tired. The adrenaline is beginning to drain out of me and now my limbs are shaking, preparing to give out. And they do.

  Am I safe?

  I turn and look at the woods, hiccupping a sob.

  Please. Please don’t find me.

  When I turn back around, he’s less than a foot away and I suck in a shocked breath, stumbling backwards. And I go down. I go down, but he catches me and slowly lowers me to the grass, frowning something fierce at my pitiful condition.

  There’s something about his hands. The capability in them. The experience.

  Right before the blackness claims me, the word safe whispers through my mind.

  * * *

  I wake up in a foreign bed and immediately know I’m not alone.

  He’s there in the corner. Heel propped on the opposite knee.

  Cloaked in shadows. Methodically drinking a cup of coffee.

  Now that the sun isn’t glaring in my eyes, I can see that he’s younger than I originally thought. Maybe twenty-eight. Thirty.

  Remembering how he greeted me, I sit up and gather the army-green comforter around me, my gaze scanning the room for his shotgun.

  “I put it away,” he says, that voice so low. Deep as a well.

  Swallowing, I take stock of my clothing. Still dressed. Minus my socks, though.

  He sets his coffee aside, standing long enough to bring me a canteen of water. “You always show up for a new job on the verge of death?”

  My response is to suck down the water greedily, finishing the entire canteen before ten seconds has passed. My body is so relieved to have its dehydration cured, tears crowd my eyes and I take a deep, gulping breath, the metal container rolling out of my slack grip.

  “If we’re going to work together, you’re going to have to knock off the crying.”

  I want to tell him I hardly ever shed tears. There’s no point. Crying just makes me think of more reasons to be sad. But I stare up at the ceiling until my eyes are dry, then I focus on him. To tell him the truth. That whoever he was waiting for? His intern? I’m not her. After that’s out of the way, maybe I can convince him to lend me cash for a bus ticket. “I’m not your in—”

  “She speaks. I was beginning to wonder,” he cuts in. “You remember the job description, right? I don’t mind going over it again. You look like you’ve been through some shit since we traded emails.”

  Been through some shit?

  You have no idea.

  He seems to read that thought on my face and his eyes flicker with grave understanding.

  “Like I said in my email, I’m writing a book,” he says, clearing his throat. “It wasn’t my idea, but if I’m going to do something, I’m going to do it right. But there’s one small issue.”

  It’s been so long since I had a good conversation. A real one. I find I’m interested to hear the rest of his problem. “What is it?”

  My voice seems to throw him off, but only momentarily. “It’s fiction. That was part of the requirement. See, I could write about Afghanistan, but that would defeat the purpose. And because it’s fiction…there are female characters. Women. Not soldiers. Civilian women. And I don’t know how to write one convincingly.” His gaze traces the slope of my shoulder, a muscle bunching in his cheek. “I’ve been in the army since I was eighteen, tour after tour, until recently. Haven’t been around many of your kind. Not in the real world. Not in normal surroundings. Not…soft.”

  “I’m not soft,” I correct him, pressure shifting in my chest.

  He nods once, twice, watching me carefully. “I expect that’s the kind of thing I’ll find out observing you for two weeks. Researching how women behave.”

  That’s it? That’s the job?

  Color me skeptical.

  I want to ask more questions, but they’ll make it clear I’m not the one he emailed with. “Two weeks,” I echo, hoping he’ll take the bait and keep talking.

  “That’s right. Two weeks as my guest. I pay you at the end.”

  Pay me. Enough to buy a bus ticket? Maybe some new clothes. Food. I could get far away from this place, get a job, have a normal life. It seems too good to be true, but maybe I’m due one tiny, little break.

  Although…why hasn’t he asked me about the scratches on my face and arms?

  Doesn’t he wonder why I have no luggage if I was planning on staying for two weeks?

  And most concerning, what if the real intern shows up?

  Then I’ll make a break for it. Hope he doesn’t shoot me.

  Please let me get the chance to eat first.

  The man stands, saunters to the door. “I’m sorry about the treacherous commute. These woods can be unforgiving. No roads to speak of. I’m guessing your suitcase got too heavy to carry? I’ll head out in the morning, see if I can find it.” He turns with a hand on the doorjamb. “In the meantime, you’re welcome to my shirts in the drawer. Toothbrush under the sink. Shower is down the hall.” His voice trails off as his footsteps creak down the hallway. “I’ll see you at dinner, Sarah.”

  Sarah.

  At the mention of dinner, my stomach growls loudly. Embarrassingly.

  His footfalls pause before continuing.

  2

  Caleb

  That’s not the girl I hired.

  I would never have hired someone I’d want to fuck.

  And Christ, I’m tempted.

  The intern who was supposed to arrive this morning was in her late thirties. An empty nester from the closest town looking to make extra money. The plan was to study the way a woman behaves, speaks, cooks. Take notes, so I could write a female with authenticity. Watching this girl will do nothing but make my dick hard. So why did I facilitate this lie?

  Because she was getting ready to tell me the truth. Then what reason would I have had to keep her here? This girl with the brave, green eyes. This girl who is running from something that I instinctively want to protect. This girl whose voice sounds like I already dreamed about it.

  Who is she?

  My hands curl into fists as I pace the length of my study. When I removed her socks, her feet were bruised from running. No one runs through that pain unless they’re running from a nightmare. And I know what that’s like. When she challenged me, told me she wasn’t soft, I felt that, too. That denial of weakness to everyone, even myself.

  How ironic that I required a woman here so I could catalogue her differences.

  And one so similar to me shows up.

  There are quite a few physical differences to her, though. Even caked in sweat and dirt, nicked up from tree branches, I couldn’t help but marvel over a body so supple. Her b ones are so fragile, her muscles lithe and feminine. She’s younger than me, probably by a good decade, even though her eyes are those of an old soul. Her hair is an indescribable color. Brown and sandy and blonde, an earthy combination that reaches her waist.

  She’s unkempt. Wild. Beautiful.

  What the hell am I thinking keeping her here?

  Building a foundation of lies, when my policy has always been the truth at all costs.

  And if I couldn’t let her go after one hour, what makes me think I’ll happily let her leave in two weeks?

  Is there something wrong with me? Who lusts after a girl who is so clearly troubled? Scared? Running away from something?

  Because it’s not just sex I’m craving from her.

  It’s something else, too. That quiet strength in her eyes grabbed me around the throat, roused my protective hackles. Made me feel possessive. I don’t simply want her to be the first woman I’ve had in years. I want to be the shield between her and whatever she’s scared of.

  The sound of the shower running brings my head up.

  Is she already naked?

  Just thinking of the suds coursing down over her nipples, my simple, white bar of soap lathering up her pussy, makes my dick pulse hot. It thickens in my jeans, damn near making me dizzy. But the girl is starved and exhausted, so I need to rein it the hell in.

  Ordering myself to focus, I throw some steaks on the stove and roast some root vegetables from the garden. I’m buttering some bread and setting it on a plate in the middle of the table when she enters the kitchen, her long hair wet, a plain white T-shirt of mine down to her knees. The fact that she looks so goddamn young doesn’t abate my lust, but it sure as hell makes me feel like a bastard.

  I pretend not to notice when she turns a surreptitious eye to the stack of mail on my sideboard. Looking for a name to call me, no doubt. A name she’s already supposed to know.

  Either way, I’m anxious to hear her say it.

  “Sit.” My voice is nothing but a scrape of sound. “Get started if you want.”

  “Thank you.”

  I turn my back, so she doesn’t have to be embarrassed about inhaling the bread and butter. And sure enough, when I turn around a minute later, half of the plate is empty.

  Right then and there, it’s decided.

  If a man is responsible for hurting this girl, I’m going to carve out his entrails.

  No one hurts her again. Ever.

  God, I wish I knew her real name. I’d know everything about her by morning. I’ve got the intelligence connections to make that happen easily. But I can’t ask for her government name without ruining the ruse—and something tells me she needs this deception. She needs to hide inside this game we’re playing and for some reason, I’m compelled by something deep and resolute to give this girl what she requires. To feel safe. To stay.

  When the light hits her cheek and I realize the dirt was a bruise, I set the steak and vegetables down in front of her harder than intended. She flinches, but keeps her head down.

  “How was your shower?”

  She picks up her utensils, visibly trying to pace herself. Not dive in right away. “Amazing,” she says. “I didn’t want to get out.”

  “Why did you?”

  A corner of her mouth twitches. “I smelled dinner.”

  My laugh is more of a grunt. “Do you want a beer?”

  “Oh, I’m not—” Old enough. Damn. Not even twenty-one. “Sure.”

  I take two cold ones out of the fridge, twist off the caps and set them down. Take my seat across from her at the table. She picks up her bottle, reads the label and takes a long sip while I try not to obsess over the way her throat looks swallowing.

  “So…” she says, looking at me through her lashes. “What is your book about?”

  Shit, I didn’t expect her to ask. I haven’t told anyone the plot. But I find myself wanting her to know. Find myself wanting to tell her anything, just so she’ll look at me. “A retired army ranger. Home after a decade, living with a wife who doesn’t know him anymore. There’s a murder in his hometown and his PTSD makes him wonder if he committed it during a blackout. His wife and him…they…”

  “What?”

  “I don’t want it to sound like a romance. It’s not.”

  She arches an eyebrow. “Just say the rest.”

  I hesitate. “They reconnect, I guess, while solving the mystery together.”

  “Oh,” she says casually, the beer bottle poised at her lips. “Is there kissing?”

  “No,” I say firmly. Then, “Might be. Haven’t decided. It’ll be minimal, if so.”

  “Good idea.” She smiles into a bite of a carrot. “No one likes kissing.”

  I make a mental note that women allow men to have their small victories.

  Or at least this one does.

  “Um.” She shifts in her chair and I realize I’ve been staring at her beautiful mouth. “You said writing the book wasn’t your idea. Whose was it?”

  Now it’s my turn to shift uncomfortably. “My doctor.” I pick up my fork, but it remains suspended over my plate. I’m no longer seeing the food, but a rush of color. A riot of sound that includes gunfire, chopper blades, screaming. “I brought a little too much war back with me. He thought putting my focus into something else, a fictional world, would be helpful.”

  She’s stopped chewing, her green eyes softening, searching.

  I won’t be able to stand her sympathy—or anyone else’s—so I change the subject. “I hope you don’t mind that I’ll be following you and taking notes.”

  “No,” she murmurs after a few seconds. “That’s…why I’m here.”

  “Yes. It is.” A heavy beat passes between us. She looks so young and vulnerable, swallowed up in my shirt, that my question escapes in an urgent rasp. “Where did the bruise on your face come from?”

  Let me kill whoever did it.

  Her fork clatters down onto the plate, slipping through pale fingers. “Is that…I-I can’t recall if you asking me personal questions is part of the deal we made.” She looks like she’s seconds from bolting and I brace to give chase, if necessary. “Is it?”

  I consider lying, but I’ve already done too much of that with her. “No, it wasn’t part of the deal.”

  “Then please don’t.” Her eyes implore me. “Okay?”

  My back teeth grind together. “And if I do? If I demand to know every thought in your beautiful head?”

  Her breath catches, color stealing up her neck.

  I watch her become aware of me. As a man. I watch her realize I’m attracted to her.

  Dangerously attracted.

  She’s innocent, though. That much is obvious. She doesn’t know enough to wonder if my cock is hard beneath the table, but goddamn, is it ever. Stiff and burdensome. Ever since she arrived. And the way she’s evading my curiosity is getting my juices flowing even more. Making me want to pin her down in my bed and fuck the secrets out of her.

  “If you demand to know every thought in my head, I’ll leave.” Her chin is raised, but her voice is shaky. “You can find someone else to observe for your book.”

  “No. I don’t want someone else,” I growl.

  “Then no personal questions,” she whispers. “Please. Or I’ll leave.”

  I’m surprised when her threat finds its mark, scaring me. She’s only been here for a few hours and I’m already attached. Irreversibly so. I don’t know her name or where she came from. If she runs, I could track her, but I wouldn’t know where to look if the trail went cold. If I want to keep her here, keep her safe, my only option is to agree to her terms.

  “Fine.” I tuck a piece of steak between my teeth and put all my frustration into chewing it. “But just for now.”

  3

  Juno

  It’s not unusual for me to hear people shouting in the darkness.

  Where I came from, it’s the norm.

  Tortured shrieks that rattle my bones have long been my lullabies.

  The shout that comes in the middle of the night isn’t one I recognize, though. It’s deep. A man’s misery in full stereo. Commanding one moment. Guttural, desperate the next.

 

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