Page 6 of Two days, One Pucking Night
Traveling to London. Will let you know when I'll be back once I'm settled.
I was desperate, suffocating from the weight of her words, expectations, and the control and leash she had wrapped around my neck. I couldn’t breathe, think—
I inhale and exhale steady breaths, shifting the direction of my thoughts, afraid that if I don't, I might trigger another panic attack. Yes, my actions were impulsive, dangerous, and possibly even downright irresponsible—everything I’m generally not, but I needed a moment. A moment to think. A moment to breathe. A moment to just be.
He takes cautious steps forward, towering over me with his huge frame. “Are you okay?”
There is warmth in his voice, soft, low, rich, like cream in coffee. I can almost taste it. And it catches me by surprise. “I—I—I—” I stumble on my words as his scent fills the small space between us, and my mind struggles to register his proximity. What is wrong with me?
“Are you sure?” He cups my face and tilts it toward him, regarding me with a warm gaze.
I nod and slowly step away from the heat radiating from him. I reach for the handle of my suitcase, turn my back to him, and make a quick beeline for the exit. I’m practically running, struggling not to fall or drop my bag.
“Wait,” he calls, the thud of his footsteps following directly behind.
I turn the curve that leads outside the play area and turn to my right.
“Wait up, I’m here for you,” he calls again, his voice too close for my liking.
What is wrong with this guy?
“Hey.” He yanks my left arm.
My suitcase and self-defense spray fall to the ground, and I find my face planted against his chest. His scent, woodsy, leathery, thick, and masculine, wraps around me like a cozy blanket on a snowy day, making clarity and my survival skills seem light years away.
I step back, and his hands wrap around my waist, drawing me closer to him. I struggle in his hold, pushing his chest to free myself. The move barely makes a dent in his stance. I try again, but this time, he releases his hold on my waist, clasping his vast hands over mine, pressing them into his chest, giving me a feel of every bulge, flex, and movement.
I tilt my head up with a sneer, catching a glimpse of his eyes—dark, sharp, astute, and intelligent. They peer down at me with a knowingness I can’t quite grasp.
“Let go, or I’ll scream.”
He releases a low rumble of laughter, and the sound echoes through my body, fingers, and chest—an energy flow, vibrating and reverberating like a strummed bass.
“Sofia.”
He whispers my name as if he can grasp that wisdom is its origin and knowledge its essence.
My core heats up.
He releases his hold, and I skitter back, trying to get hold of my composure. Mr. Blue Hoodie raises his hands, pulling back his hood. I’m met with familiar high-sculpted cheekbones, a high chin, and a face I’ve seen countless times on the rink, television, in adverts, magazines, and in the occasional picture messages from my brother.
“How are you here?” I realize how stupid the question is when it leaves my mouth.
How is he here with me, in the same city? At the same time, even though we are thousands of miles from San Francisco? How is he here when we’ve barely crossed paths or consistently been in the same spaces in the decade he’s known, Zayn?
“Your brother,” he says with assured confidence.
“My brother?”
“You share locations with him—”
“No. No, I don’t. I didn’t,” I grit out the words before he finishes.
Zayn? I expect this from my mom, but Zayn? There’s a tightness in my chest. That feeling of dismay expands, pressing itself outwardly.
Yet again, another family member has disregarded my feelings and desires. They disregarded me. My needs. My wishes. My boundaries. Without care or afterthought of how it would make me feel. My skin heats with anger, and all I want to do is claw out Zayn's face.
I pull out my phone, scanning through the various apps, trying to work out which one he used and when.
