Think? Yes, she needed to think. To do that he had to stop. All of it. He had to stop pushing. “Wait.”
“I say we head out tomorrow. You can get packed up by then, yeah?” He propped his hands on lean hips, thumbs tucked beneath the waistband of his black cotton boxers like a threat, or a promise. She wasn’t sure which. His big hands framed the ridges and planes of muscle from abdomen up to his chest, fancy tattoos sitting atop each big buff shoulder, done in shades of green and gray and blue. He was a work of art.
Her knees wobbled.
With a particularly pained expression, he asked, “What’s wrong now?”
“You. You need to back off.” The flats of her palms connected with the heat of his chest as she did her best to shove him. “Give me some space. Now.”
The big guy gifted her one small step backward and hung his head. Lips compressed and jaw stern, he looked up at her from beneath dark brows. “Ali …”
“No. You need to back off. This isn’t going to work.”
The big man swore. Repeatedly. “You’ve been living up in the roof for what? Six, seven weeks? Coming down to scavenge when you have no other choice? That’s not living, and we both know it. The world may have gone to shit but we’re still alive, don’t you think it’s time to start acting like it?”
Her face must have conveyed her doubt over the pep talk because he groaned and ran a hand over the choppy, badly cut, short dark head of hair. He seemed beyond irate with his eyes narrowed. It wasn’t her damn fault he barged in and took over without a thought.
Various muscles around his mouth tightened, as if he wanted to yell at her but held it in. She could relate. It was going around.
Final y, he rolled his shoulders, like a fighter getting ready to head back into the ring. He gave her a long hard stare and she did her best not to blink. Her frightened inner rabbit wanted to scamper as escape scenarios raced through her mind. Daniel noticed her reaction and the growl amped up a notch as he took yet another step back. This one was sizably bigger than the last; he was almost back to standing in the doorway. “Better?”
She nodded.
“Fuck’s sake.” His mouth opened then shut, as if he too had just noticed the lack of oxygen in the room. “Fine, maybe you don’t need me. Truth is … I need you.”
She stopped.
Daniel crossed thick arms over his chest and glared back at her. A purely defensive stance, she knew it well. Her own arms were crossed and bolted down over her breasts, which might have been his point. She was the one locked down. He simply mirrored her tight-ass ways.
And he looked downright stupid in Mary’s flowery feminine house. He was so big and intimidating. No wonder she had run like a rabbit. She winced at the angry red lines crisscrossing his tanned skin. Her work. But struggling had gotten her nowhere. He stood there barefoot, waiting on her in his underwear.
She focused on his toes because they were easier to fix on than his face or the rest of his stupendous body.
What the hell was she going to do with him?
Suddenly, he stuck his hand out. “Shake. We’re starting over. Clean slate. Pretend we just met, like it’s our first date or something.”
“Our first date?”
He gave a one-shoulder shrug, face careful y bland, but the lines around his eyes remained tight, sharply embedded. “You get the drift.”
His big hand hung there in the space between them. In many ways, she would be trusting her life to that handshake. Not a
“throw
caution to the wind ”, idle sort of undertaking. Al of this felt weighty, and she had no crystal ball to tell if he was good or bad, right or wrong. She had no way of knowing since the world had gone so spectacularly to shit.
Moments passed and the hand did not so much as waver. He waited her out with absolute patience. As signs went, it wasn’t bad.
“Alright.” She held her hand out, and he covered it with both of his.
“Daniel Cross, forty-one, single.” He paused and gave her a wary glance, turned his face aside. “Divorced actually, a long time ago.
Let’s not discuss it. I’m a mechanic, or, I was. I’ve been travelling down the coast for the last six weeks, looking for survivors. Your turn.”
“Ah, okay. Ali Jameson, thirty-two, was a secretary. I lived in one of the townhouses next door.” Done. She shut her mouth and shuffled her feet. Ignored the tingling going up her arm entirely.
“Single?”
She gave another nod.
“Keep going,” he encouraged.
“Well …” What to say? Thinking back on it, her accomplishments were few. Best stick to the fresh stuff, what little of it was air-able.
“Mary, the old lady that lived here, she got sick and asked if I would stay with her. She didn’t have much family. Mine were all down south.” Her voice wound down to a whisper, and he nodded in understanding. “There was no way out. Things went bad fast. People just …”
“Yeah, I know. There wasn’t as much military up north and what there was, was spread thin. But still, the streets were insane. You did the right thing keeping your head down.”