“You can’t be this nice to me,” I say. “It’s not sustainable. I’m going to get spoiled.”
He scowls, his handsome face contorting. I see new lines next to his mouth, between his eyebrows. I like his more mature face. “What the fuck does that mean?”
“It’s nothing. But you know… It wasn’t a good thing that I went back to my mom.”
He nods slowly. “I’m sure. Sarah I… You’re the only person who reallyknows,” he says. “I love my family. I love my family, and they have no idea what it’s like to be in the system. They have no idea what it’s like to experience that kind of uncertainty. You know. You know what it’s like to have to pack all your stuff up in a plastic garbage bag. To wear the same pair of shoes until they're falling off your feet. Until you have blisters on your toes, because nobody remembers that they need to get new supplies for you. You’re the only person in the fucking world that I know who has any idea what I’ve been through. It’s just really great to see you again. You can have my bed. You can have whatever you need.”
I take a deep breath. “I forgot what it was like to have somebody on my team.”
“Fuck,” he says.
Then he’s closing the distance between us, wrapping his arms around me. I’m enveloped in his heat. In his warmth. The security of him. He’s so much taller now. More solid. He’s like a wall of muscle and comfort. Everything I’ve ever dreamed about, honestly.
His arms. His touch.
Him.
It has never, ever been more than a deep desire for security. But right then I feel the stirring of something else, something low in my stomach, and I shove it to the side.
And I just let him hold me. I let myself feel secure. Which is something I simply don’t have a lot of experience with. Something I gave up on ever feeling.
He releases his hold on me. “I need a shower.”
I swallow hard. “Yeah. Of course.”
There’s an open suitcase sitting on the other side of the bed, and he reaches down and grabs his clothes out of it. I perch myself on the end of the bed. “Should I… ask for extra blankets at the front desk?”
“I’ll handle that,” he says. “I don’t want you walking out of here, and I don’t want you answering the door for anyone while I’m in the shower.”
“I don’t think I’m in that much danger,” I say.
“But you don’t know that,” he says.
The truth is, he’s right. Idon’tknow that. I haven’t known for sure the whole time, that’s why everything feels so terrifying.
I don’t know what kind of revenge that man wants on me. If it’s just to make me feel small, helpless again, if he wants to hurt me. I don’t know. Foolishness would be tempting finding out for sure if I’m in danger.
Dallas disappears into the bathroom, and I hear the water running. I open up my backpack and take out my pajamas. I decide to dress quickly while he’s in there. My pajamas – such as they are – are a pair of oversized men’s sweats. But nobody ever sees what I sleep in, so it’s never mattered whether they look nice or not.
Though I think as I look in the mirror, they definitely don’t. Which seems a little bit sad now. Not that I care what Dallasthinks about my pajamas, I guess. His shower is quick, and I find myself imagining the steps he’s taking when he gets out. Drying himself off and getting dressed.
I do my best to shut my brain off as those thoughts get a little bit too intimate.
The door opens, and he steps out. The first thing I do is laugh. He’s wearing a pair of black sweatpants that look identical to mine.
“Well,” he says. “That’s a greeting.”
“Not meant to be offensive,” I say.
But then, my eyes moved to his chest, which is bare and sculpted, and I find it harder to tear my eyes away than I should. I can honestly say I’ve never been this close to a half-naked man who looks like him.
I’ve never tried to be. Men are, and have been, low on my list of priorities. Which isn’t to say that he isn’t singular. Because that’s certainly part of it. His is an above average physique. Even I, with my minimal experience, can recognize that.
“I’m going to go get blankets.” He reaches down into the suitcase and takes a white T-shirt out, shrugging it on. I realize that I’m watching his every movement with the sort of forensic care. Which is weird, but I try not to worry too much about that. Or maybe worry isn’t the right word.
“Lock the door while I’m out,” he says.
He slips on a pair of slides, and heads out the door, and is gone for about ten minutes. I pace around the room, and I don’t let myself look in his suitcase, because that would be creepy. I’m struck again by the level of intimacy he’s allowing. Letting me, a functional stranger, stay in this room with him. But I suppose as a woman, the risk is greater on my end.
