God, just the thought of it makes me blush so fiercely and actually causes me to stumble on my high heels as I walk down the sidewalk. I’m trudging back to my apartment after my long evening walk. In truth, it started out as an afternoon walk that turned into an evening walk. Mostly because I didn’t want to go back to the empty apartment. As amazing as that apartment is—and also, fully stocked because Isadora had called ahead and had their housekeeper stock the kitchen and the fridge for me—it also makes me realize how lonely I am. How heartbroken.
How I want his arms around me to tell me things are going to be okay. Between us. That everything isn’t so bad and the world will move on from that stupid video. Gosh, how am I supposed to face my family now? How am I supposed to face all my stepbrothers and Callie and Tempest and oh my God, Snow. My little sister, my baby, myeverythingand…
Just then I feel something in the back of my neck, and I come to a halt.
I haven’t felt that ever since I got here three days ago. While I’ve felt people looking at me on occasion, I knew they weren’t though. And it was only because of that leaked video and the article that I felt that way. No one in this city cares about a redhead walking down the street with her head bent and tears streaming down her cheeks. In fact, they go out of the way to not look and keep their distance.
So this is new. This feeling is new but alsoso familiarand I spin around to look.
As always, I don’t have to look hard or even far. I find him right away. I find him standing only a few feet behind me. Or more like, coming to a halt mid-step. Much likeIdid only a couple of seconds ago.
For a few seconds, all I can do is stare at him, take him in, trying to think if this is real. If he reallyisstanding on a sidewalk in New York City as people walk past us, looking at me like I’m his dream come true. Like he’s been searching for me for years and he’s so tired now. There are pits under his eyes and his face has lost all its color. His features have honed into sharp, weary points and his eyes are red-rimmed.
But here I am finally so he can breathe. I know that because he does. His chest moves with a large, large breath that moves through his entire body. It hollows out his abs. It makes him shift on his feet. It parts his lips even. It even makes his arms flex including the flowers he’s holding in his hand, purple roses.
I see the bouquet tremor in his hand, and I realize not only is he real but he’s here to apologize. For leaving me in my room that night. He’s finally realized that I meant what I said; I wouldn’t be waiting for him when he came back. And he’s brought me flowers.
It makes me so angry, so…furiousthat I do the only thing that makes sense. I run. I wheel around on my heels and I start pumping my legs. And of course, he starts chasing me because that’s who he is. Because he thinks he can come here, throw his stupid flowers at me, tell me he’s sorry and everything will go back to normal. We’ll go back to our volatile, toxic,beautifulnon-relationship where he never ever admits to his feelings and keeps lying to himself and me.
No, thank you. I’m not doing that. I’m nevereverdoing that.
So I run as fast as I can but even I know, there’s no outrunning him. He’s a wrecking ball both on and off the field, and he won’t let anything stand in his way if he wants to get tome. A few seconds later, I’m proven right when I feel his fingers wrapping around my bicep. Before I’m not only being stopped in my tracks but tugged back to crash against his hard body. And then as always, he maneuvers me however he wants me by snaking an arm around my waist and hauling me up and off the ground.
This time though I have enough wherewithal to scream. This is New York City. People are actually walking up and down the street. And as much as they don’t care about someone crying by them on the subway, someone will come to my rescue. And you know what, maybe someone will call 911 too. So he getsarrestedfor literally lifting me off the sidewalk in broad daylight. Or muted evening light. His career be damned.Everythingabout him be damned.
But he’s faster than me. Just as soon as I open my mouth, he covers it with his hand, and shuts me up. I get a lungful of the sweet scent of roses as he carries me to a dark alley between two buildings with me struggling in his hold, kicking my feet, trying to get free. I don’t though. Not until we reach the far end of the alley, away from the commotion of the street, behind a fire escape. He puts me down and spins me around, crowding me against the brick wall.
“What the fuck, asshole,” I practically scream in his face, pushing at his chest. “Let me go.”
He doesn’t say anything to that, simply keeps staring at me, his chest harshly breathing, his mouth parted, his hands firmly planted by my head on the wall. I lose my patience and push at him again. “Let me go. Let me go.Let me go.”
Nothing. Not one thing. No words. No change in his expression, except his intense stare that moves from one side of my face to another. And I just… I smack him. I smack him in the jaw. I smack him in his face. I think I even smack his chest. I’m raining down slaps on him as fast and as hard as I can and he’sletting me. Until I get all tired and run out of breath. Not that I stop but still my slaps don’t have the same force to them.
Which is when he takes charge.
He grabs my hands by the wrist and puts them up on the wall. I try to buck him off but he forces—literallyforces—our fingers to thread together like we’re the greatest lovers that ever lived and curls his hands into fists,refusingto let go.
Still twisting between him and the wall, I snap, “What are you doing? Why aren’t you saying anything? What is?—”
He licks his lips then and rumbles, “Looking at you.”
His voice is scratchy and seems to be coming from somewhere deep in his chest and I clench my belly at the effect it has on me. “What?”
Still roving his eyes over my face, he says, “Haven’t looked at you in three days. That’s the…”
Despite myself, I ask, “That’s the what?”
His chest jerks with a breath. Then, “That’s the longest I haven’t looked at you ever since you spilled your drink on me at the club.”
“That’s not…”
Oh, yeah it is true. Even though we’ve been apart many times after that night, he has seen me almost every single day. During those three weeks when I thought everything was over between us because he found out the truth about who I was, he still saw me working at the coffee shop. Even when we were in the process of moving into his house and he would avoid me, he told me he would still go to the coffee shop to catch a glimpse of me from afar. And ever since he left for the season, aside from those first two days where he was avoiding me, we’ve been Facetiming every single night.
My heart skips a beat in my chest at that, at his intense scrutiny but I try to be strong. I try to block out the need in his eyes, the fact that he’s so large and sweet-smelling, allstrawberries and musk. I even try to block out how perfectly our hands fit each other like this, our palms joined, our fingers laced together like the fabric of our soul. I wonder why we never made love like that, holding hands, as he moved inside of me. That’s because we never made love. Or even if we did, it meant something else to him.
I take a deep breath and steel my spine even more. “That’s because you’re a crazy psycho who won’t leave me alone.”
He makes another round of my face with his dark, intense eyes before looking me in mine. Then, with a frankness I haven’t seen from him before, he rasps, “I am, yes.”
