Free Holiday Havoc by Terri Reed

“Lauren, that’s not what I mean.”
    She met his gaze. “Then what did you mean?”
    He blew out a breath, looking contrite. “I guess I have been using avoidance tactics. I’m sorry. It has nothing to do with you.”
    â€œThen what does your avoidance have to do with?”
    Raw, primitive pain flashed in his blue eyes. Something or someone had hurt him.
    Her heart acknowledged his pain, and compassion filled her. She slipped her arms around his waist. “Whatever it is, you can tell me.”
    He tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. “Your life is in danger. You shouldn’t have to be burdened with my troubles when you have your own to deal with.”
    Reminded of her Nightmare, she quaked. “It’s freaking me out that he’s on the loose.”
    He hugged her close. “I can totally understand that. But you can’t let the fear win.”
    She gave a bitter laugh. “It already has. It’s taken so much from me.”
    He leaned back to look at her face, his expression so tender, so distressed on her behalf. “You mean your painting?”
    He was too perceptive for her comfort. “Yes. Among other things.” Her self-esteem. Her ability to trust.
    He raised a questioning eyebrow.
    No way would she disclose how ugly and unlovable she felt. She couldn’t take seeing confirmation of those feelings or pity in his eyes. The silence stretched, pulling at her already taut nerves. She dropped her gaze.
    â€œI think you should start painting again,” he said softly.
    Dismayed, her gaze snapped to his face. “I can’t.”
    A gentle smile curved his lips. “You can.”
    Agitation beat through her system like the delicate wings of a butterfly. Paint again? Longing swamped her. Yet a yawning terror sucked it away. The thought of picking up a paintbrush and reaching into the place of creativity that had been invaded and violated by violence and rage left her frozen, immobile to act, to create with color. Her world was now shades of black and white, like her charcoal sketches.
    She shuddered and gave a negative shake of her head. “No.”
    â€œI’ll help you.”
    She blinked. This man was such a puzzle to her. So generous yet so closed off. And here he’d done it again, skillfully avoided revealing anything of himself and turning the focus back on her. “Why would you want to help me?”
    â€œBecause I believe in you, in your talent. You have a God-given gift that shouldn’t be wasted.”
    His words warmed her soul. But the fear wouldn’t let go.
    â€œFinish just one painting,” he coaxed.
    Again the desire to paint, to hold a brush and create beauty on a canvas, overwhelmed her and throbbed like an ache much worse than the pain in her injured ankle.If Sean handled the flammable materials…if she made sure no candles or anything else with a flame were nearby…if she was careful…if she didn’t breathe in…
    Could she tap into her creativity and not let the smell of paint, the feel of the brush in her hand thrust her mind back to the Nightmare? Was she strong enough? Only one way to find out. Slowly, she nodded.
    The smile of approval and joy on Sean’s face tugged at her heart. Why was her success at conquering her fear so important to him?
    Sean grabbed a pad of paper and a pen from a drawer and handed them to her. “Make a list of what you need and I’ll go pick it up from your cottage.”
    â€œI can go,” she said, her mind inventorying all the necessary items.
    He shook his head. “Too dangerous. You have to stay here, inside the house. I’ll bring everything to you.”
    Knowing he was right didn’t make accepting his words any easier. She didn’t like being cooped up, but what choice did she have? She quickly made a list with instructions on where to find the items.
    When he left with the list in one hand and the