I
t wasn’t as if Cap regretted what had happened with Tess. Not at all. He hadn’t been with a woman for far too long. No, the intimacy was good. He didn’t regret the act itself. What nagged at him now were the implications of the unknown.
He opened a new package of 150 grit sandpaper and began to work the top of a bookshelf. He preferred sanding by hand. Maybe it took five times longer to smooth out the wood—and he had a brand-new orbital sander that could do the trick just fine—but there was something about touching wood directly with his fingers that gave Cap a sense of connection. Usually, he got swallowed up in his work, his mind nowhere except in the grain of the wood itself, but today, his mind kept returning to Tess.
The woman was running from something. Running from somebody. Ma
