Christmas With the Convict (Bringing Home Trouble)

Chapter 1

WENDY

Volunteering at a state penitentiary can be grim.

I walk through the familiar checkpoints, receive my pat-downs from guards that know my name, clip on my visitor’s badge, and delve through the concrete corridors. My heels strike an echo in time with my heart.

With every step, my heart beats faster.

The closer I get to my little classroom, the more it rattles my ribcage.

And it’s not because I’m working with dangerous convicts. Honestly, they’re relatively pleasant. It’s because of him.

Inmate Chase Oliver.

The guard, Officer Stoker, a stout older woman with a relaxed face, opens the door and smiles. She’s been overseeing my sessions since I started six months ago. As always, I hug my big folder like a shield, if only to hide the fact that my chest is flush.

“Nervous?” Stoker asks, as always.

“Not at all,” I lie.

The classroom feels more like a prison than a place of learning. I guess that makes sense. It’s windowless, with one door that’s always locked and guarded, a dirty old chalkboard (I came prepared with a dozen white-board markers on my first day), and my students, the inmates, are cuffed to long metal benches by their ankles.

They’re all waiting for me when I walk in, all morose in their dark blue jumpsuits.

All but one.

I pause with my coat midway down my arms. Chase’s absence is as plain as day. Eight men are staring at me, a few are even stealing glances at my legs trailing out of my pencil skirt, but none of them are looking into my eyes the way Chase does.

The inmates allowed to participate in my weekly writing course are only granted the privilege because of good behavior. That does not, however, mean that I don’t occasionally lose students. This is a prison. Fights happen. Things get stolen. Worse incidents occur in this walled world…

I clear my throat and finally set my coat down on the plastic table at the front of the class. My name is already on the board—Miss Bettencourt—and Officer Stoker has taken up her position by the door.

“Ma’am,” I whisper, keeping my back to the inmates. “I seem to be missing a student today.”

“Inmate Oliver?” She shrugs. “He’s being processed for release. Out early. Good behavior.”

I knew it.

I knew Chase couldn’t have gotten involved in a fight or a riot or anything so horrible. Alright, in the three months that he’s been in my class, I haven’t exactly spoken to him about anything other than writing. And he opted for the personal journal as his project, so I don’t even know what he writes about outside of our exercises. But those honey-hazel eyes said more to me than words ever could. Every priceless, prolonged glance spoke to my soul.

I don’t know him, but I know he’s not a bad man.

And now I’m never going to see him again.

God, I’ve never felt anything so bittersweet. He’s free and can go back to his life, but I can’t fight the selfish desire to have him cuffed to that bench right where I can see him.

I can’t help but feel empty as I greet my class and start my final lesson before Christmas break.

Back out through the maze of metal detectors, steel doors, and windowless rooms. The guards smile and wish me a merry Christmas. I smile back, but my eyes are searching frantically for Chase.

I could wait for him in my car, park out by the front gate. But then what? I’m sure he has someone waiting for him, someone to take him home just in time for the holidays. A man as handsome as him must have a girl waiting for him on the outside.

I only wish that girl could have been me.

Leave it to me to fall for a guy completely out of reach, literally separated by barbed wire and steel bars. Those who know me call me a hopeless romantic, but this is ridiculous.

I feel silly as I drive out of the employee parking zone, up the main drive, and wait for the front gate to crawl open. I’m twenty-three years old, entertaining a love-struck fantasy. That doesn’t stop me from cranking Kelly Clarkson on the way out—it’s sing or cry.

The penitentiary shrinks in my rearview mirror.

I turn onto Evans Rd, heading for Highway 50. Snow has dusted the open fields. It’s cold and only going to get colder in the few days before Christmas.

A man is walking along the road.

He looks more like a shadow of a man as I approach. A big, fierce shadow in dirty jeans, a ratty leather vest, and a gray long-sleeve. Those clothes don’t look at all warm enough for a winter walk. But his head is up, staring at the horizon, face set like stone as I pass.

Chase…

Before I know it, I’m slamming on my breaks.

The tires squeal as I throw it in reverse and pull up alongside him on the empty road. Inmate Oliver—now a free Chase Oliver—looks at me through the open window, goes wide-eyed, and then keeps walking.

“Hey!” I slowly roll with him, leaning over the passenger seat to yell out the window. “Inmate—Mr. Oliver? It’s me… Miss—“

“Bettencourt,” he says without stopping. “Ma’am.”

“Oh, you can call me Wendy.”

He steals a glance at me. “Chase.”

I knew he was big, but he looks huge now that he’s not in that baggy jumpsuit. His clothes seem a size too small for his dense muscles….

“I missed you in class today, Chase. I mean, we missed you.” A car flies by blaring its horn. “The guard told me you were being released. That’s amazing! It must feel great to be a free man again, huh?”

Chase offers me a curt smile that bounces back to his signature, sexy scowl. I narrow my eyes and finally whip my SUV out ahead of him and park blocking the path. He walks up to the passenger door and rests his arms inside. He’s holding the journal he was issued in class, which nothing more than a cheap school notepad. The secret words on those pages call to me…

“So,” I say, fingers drumming the steering wheel. “Where you headed? Home for the holidays?”

He shrugs. “Pueblo.”

I hate how sparing he is with his words. It robs me of the sound of his deep, humming voice.

“You have family there?”

“No.”

“A girlfriend, then? What’s waiting for you in Pueblo?”

Chase Oliver shakes his head almost imperceptibly. He’s alone. And if that bothers him, you’d never know it by the stoic look on his face.

“There’s no one coming to get you…”

He does that little smile again. This time, I see something in his eyes. I see the lack of a fireplace to warm his tired, cold body. I see an absence of music and singing and food and family to share the holidays with. I see myself, reflected in his beautiful irises, and the possibilities of the chance I’m about to take.

I pop open the passenger door. “Get in.”

“Don’t need a ride,” he says quickly. “Been a while since I’ve walked anywhere.”

“I’m not giving you a ride. You’re coming with me.”

“With you?” He scans my face, staring into my eyes with that same intensity he always does. It’s like he’s bearing down on my soul. “Where?”

“Aspen.”

Chase actually laughs. It’s a soft chuckle that makes my toes curl. “I don’t ski.”

“You don’t have to,” I say. “It’s where my family spends the holidays. We have a house there.”

He seems taken aback. His eyes scan my Range Rover, my clothes, they even seem to lose themselves in my hair.

“You’re rich,” he finally says.

“I suppose. My family is well off.” I shrug. “I don’t see why that matters.”

“It matters.” His face is set cold and hard again. Those arms tense and bulge. “You think your family will welcome a convict into their fancy home?”

“You’re not a convict anymore...”

“I’m a felon.” He smiles, head tilting a little. “Do you even know what I did?”

That question has been plaguing me since I started teaching this writing class. Not just with Chase, but with all the men. What crimes were committed by the hands I’ve been guiding? What might any of those men have been able to do with their pencils if I had ever broken the rules and gotten too close? I was forbidden from crossing the bold red line on the floor. The guard always passed out supplies for me.

But I swore I would never ask any of them about their crimes, and I refuse to ask Chase. He was sentenced and served his time. He was even released early for good behavior. His future means more to me than his past.

“I don’t care what you did.”

Chase blinks as if I stabbed him in the chest. His mouth hangs open.

“Your time has been served,” I say, patting the leather passenger seat. “You’re about twenty minutes into your new life. What will you make of it?”

The road ahead is barren.

The city cut down most of the trees and cleared out any brush. It’s easier to spot escaped prisoners in open fields. A half-mile down the road, there’s a lonely diner that mostly serves truckers.

Chase steps back and my heart drops.

If he wants to keep going down that road, alone, there’s nothing I can do to stop him. Maybe I’m foolish for trying. He’s been locked up for years, and I’m asking him to come along to a different—albeit more jolly—sort of prison.

“Look,” I say, closing my eyes. “If you don’t want to then I can at least give you—“

My car’s weight shifts.

Chase settles into the passenger seat and shuts the door. “Could you roll up the window?” he asks. “It was spring when I got locked up.”

“Of course!” Joy floods from my heart and out my lips. “Oh, don’t worry. You can borrow some clothes once we get there. You’re a bit bigger than my dad. And my uncle. And my brother-in-law… But we’ll find something that fits! You’re gonna love the house. There’s TONS of snow already, and—“

Chase moves so fast that I shriek. He’s got me by my wrist in a grip that’s far too gentle for so swift a move.

“I’d like some quiet,” he hums. “It was loud in there. Always loud. Someone was always… I missed the quiet. Please, just for a while.”

Slowly, his fingers slide up my wrist into my hand. They’re rough , and Chase starts to pull back as they grate against my smooth palm.

But I lace my fingers in his and squeeze tightly.

“Of course,” I whisper. “Sorry, I just got a little excited.”

I’m suddenly very aware that our breathing has matched pace. Our chests are heaving and our gazes are locked together as tightly as our fingers.

“It’s five hours to Aspen. Plenty of time for some peace and quiet,” I say through trembling lips. “And that’s probably for the best. The house might be louder than even you’re used to…”

Chase exhales pleasantly as if the idea of driving all day is the best news he’s ever received. He sits back and closes his eyes without a word.

Reluctantly, I let his hand go.

My fingertips buzz, desperate to feel his touch again.

Chase is either fast asleep or deep in thought. For a moment, I just stare at him. I let myself look deeply into that face, taking in all the details that stolen glances in class never afforded me. He’s gone a few days without a shave. Thick, dark hairs are poking out in an even grow along his strong chin and cheeks. A thin scar cuts down the right side of his jaw, curving dangerously toward his throat but stopping just short. I giggle quietly when I notice that he doesn’t have earlobes.

“Something wrong with your car?”

I squeal and jump back in my seat. Luckily, he doesn’t open his eyes and find me memorizing every detail of his gorgeous face.

“No. No,” I laugh awkwardly. “Just planning our route. And we’re off!”

As we head toward the highway, Chase never looks back at that horrible place. He keeps his eyes closed, and I turn on the seat warmer for him. I think he falls asleep before we’re a mile down the road.

I smile at him, resisting the urge to hold his hand all the way to Aspen.

Just before the on-ramp, we pass a yellow sign with bold black letters:

Do not pick up hitchhikers.