“No.” He shakes his head. “I just popped downstairs to see Mr. McCluskey.”
Mr. McCluskey is the live-in handyman in our apartment building.
There used to be a time when I would have left the door unlocked to pop downstairs. Back when I feared nothing because I didn’t know better.
Now, I fear everything, and I can’t even step out into the hall without locking up behind me.
“The shower has been acting up,” he continues, reaching into a cupboard and pulling out two mugs. “Can I get you a coffee? Tea?” He holds the mugs up.
“Oh. Erm …”
If I take a drink, then I’ll have to stay. Sit down. Make conversation. Talk about myself. He might ask questions …
“No, thank you. I should get back.” I’m already walking to the door.
“Oh. Okay. Sure.” He seems surprised by my answer.
Maybe he’s used to women wanting to stay around him. I would if I were still the old Audrey. I would have even had my flirt on the moment I met him. But not now.
I’m not even sure I know how to flirt anymore.
“Well, thanks for looking out for Eleven. Again,” he adds.
I pause by the now-closed door and glance over at him. He’s leaning against the kitchen countertop, facing me.
“It’s fine.” I tuck some stray hairs behind my ear.
“You’re bleeding.” Jack is already moving toward me, concern etched on his face.
“Huh?” I lower my arm, twisting it around, and see a big scratch down the outer side of my forearm, blood trickling from it.
Before I register what is actually happening, Jack takes ahold of my arm, cupping the elbow in his hand, his other hand curled around mine, and he guides me to the kitchen.
I try not to pay attention to how large his hand is, compared to mine. Or how it feels to have his skin touching mine.
Jack is touching me.
“I’m okay. Really.” I try to tug my arm free, but he keeps a firm but gentle hold of it.
“Let me clean you up. Eleven must have scratched you when I scared you both.”
“It was my fault. I screamed and scared her. I shouldn’t have been in here—”
His eyes fix on mine. My heart jumps into my throat.
“You were being a good person.” He squeezes my elbow and then releases his hold on me. “Just wait there a second.”
I watch, a little dumbstruck, as he backs up out of the kitchen and goes into the living room. I want to tell him that I’m not a good person. I’m the kind of person who gets people murdered.
Jack rummages around in one of the boxes and pulls out a first aid kit a few moments later.
I avert my eyes as he walks back to me, pretending like I find the floor insanely fascinating.
He stops in front of me, putting the first aid kit on the counter beside me.
God, he smells good. Like the outdoors. Cedar wood and something inherently male.
My ovaries shimmy with happiness.
Down, girls. It ain’t happening.
He rips open an antiseptic wipe, bringing my eyes to his hands and forearms. They’re strong and tanned.
He takes hold of my arm again. “This will sting.”
I lift my eyes to his face. His eyes are already on mine.
My heart putters to a stop.
“You ready?” he asks me.
All I can do is nod.
The first brush of the wipe over the cut stings like a bitch, but I take it like a woman.
I have experienced far worse than this in the past.
“Okay?” he checks as he continues to wipe over the scratch.
I find my voice and answer, “Yes.” Although it comes out sounding a little hoarse.
He lifts my arm up, examining it. And I can’t stop looking at his face. It’s like I no longer have control over my eyes.
“The scratch is too long to put a Band-Aid on,” he tells me. “So, you’ll have to leave it uncovered. I just wanted to get it cleaned up fast, make sure it doesn’t get infected.”
His eyes flick to mine, and I look away, caught.
My pulse is pounding, and I can feel my cheeks starting to heat. “I’ll be fine.”
I tug my arm free, and he lets it go this time.
“Thank you … for helping me with the scratch.” I skirt around him, ensuring not to touch one single part of his body with mine.
“No problem.” His voice hits my back as I head for the door.
I pull it open and walk through it, closing it behind me.
I practically sprint to my apartment. Let myself inside and lock up behind me.
I fall back against the door.
Jesus. I’m such a freak. I didn’t even say good-bye. Just hightailed it out of there.
Jack must think I’m a crazy person.
Good. It’s good if he thinks that.
Then, he’ll stay away, and that is what I want.
Right?
Right.
On a sigh, I push off the door and go and do my usual check of my apartment before I continue with running my bath.
My eyes sweep up and down him. He’s wearing that beaten leather jacket that he always wears. Dark blue jeans. A gray henley shirt. Biker boots on his feet.
He looks hot, like usual.
It’s disconcerting, to say the least.
So is the fact that I’m seeing him again.
It was only yesterday when I was in his apartment.
He sees me, eyes locking on to mine, and smiles.
“Hi again,” he says, approaching me.
“Why is it that, less than a week ago, I had never seen you before, and now, I can’t go anywhere without seeing you?”
He stops a few feet from me. Lips parted slightly, like I’ve shocked him into silence.
Did I actually just say that?
I couldn’t have just said hello and been on my way?
But seriously, I go from never seeing this guy to seeing him wherever I go.
It’s … weird.
And I have lived weird, so I know what to look for. And it’s this.
He’s at my place of work—it’s a public building, but that doesn’t count. My apartment building—okay, he lives there, too, so I’ll give him that. But the coffee shop and now the grocery store?
I can go weeks. Months. Without seeing the same person again.
Granted, I avoid people at all costs.
But him? He is everywhere I go.
They’re either coincidences—and I’m not a big believer in that—or he’s following me.
So, I have to go with, he’s following me.
Look … I know I’m a suspicious person nowadays. But come on. Any normal person would feel creeped out by this, wouldn’t they?
Or was that just incredibly rude of me?
He cleaned my arm up yesterday after Eleven scratched it. He didn’t have to do that.
God, I’m such a bitch.
If my adoptive mom could hear me now, she would be so disappointed.
Ashamed, I wince, my eyes closing briefly before opening back up. I look him in the eye. “That was really rude of me. I apologize.”
His eyes are watchful, appraising. Like he’s making his mind up about something. Quite likely me and whether he thinks I’m a dick. It would be no surprise if he thought I was a dick.
“Don’t apologize. It was honest. I like honesty in a person. And I agree; it is odd that we keep running into each other. Do you believe in fate, Audrey?”