THE APPROACH OF HIS footsteps told me when Josh finally came to me Wednesday lunchtime. They stopped in the doorway to the guest bedroom of the show apartment. I didn’t turn, simply continued my up and down arm sweeps, moving the roller across the wall. Having waited that long for him to see sense, I figured a few minutes longer wouldn’t kill me.
He must have suspected my awareness of his presence. I knew he watched me, the heat of his stare all but set my back alight.
Still, I didn’t turn.
An unsubtle throat clearing broke my roll. With no more than a slight falter to my movements, I continued as though I hadn’t heard.
“Jem?” His voice arrived low, his tenor deep—whether from his difficulty in approaching me or emotions, I didn’t know. Either way, he sounded off.
My arm paused before
