Landry. A million shots of adrenaline jabbed into her, and she came to her senses. She could only remember climbing onto her bike and later crossing Johnston Street. The rest of her ride was a blank; her attention was still in Malcolm Vashal’s office. Maren shook her head in self-ridicule. She’d get herself killed if she wasn’t more careful. Consciously making the left hand signal, she turned onto St. Thomas, pushed herself onto Louisa, and bounced into her driveway. She had kissed him. Again. She could not believe it. But this time she was not awash in shame. In fact, her earlier humiliation was now just a memory that had lost its sting. Everything had changed when she’d heard him say that he’d wanted to kiss her. His confession had left her feeling validated—and angry. So angry. How could Malcolm think that he couldn’t make her happy—when that was all he’d ever done?
