As if he would ever want me. I’m totally getting ahead of myself.
Realizing that he’s waiting for an answer, I offer him a wan smile. “What was I supposed to do with him?” I ask with a shrug, pretending that I’m normal. That what I just experienced is no big deal. I’ve been almost mugged plenty of times, right? I can handle this. I’m tough. Strong.
Lies, lies, lies.
His expression turns grim. “We probably should’ve called the cops.”
The last thing I need is the police to show up and realize who I am. Where I’m at. They’d connect the dots and most likely crap their pants to be the first one on the phone with the local news. Talk about coming up at eleven—they’d all salivate to have the scoop on this ridiculous story. The media would have a field day with the constant speculation, the questions, the lack of answers.
No thank you.
“Hopefully you scared them enough that they’ll never try something like that again.” He may not be touching me, but he’s standing awfully close, totally in my personal space. Yet I don’t mind. My arm still tingles where his fingers pressed into my skin. I take a step backward, suddenly needing the distance, confused by my reaction.
I don’t know him. So why am I acting like this? Thinking like this? I shouldn’t like the way he’s looking at me, the breadth of his shoulders, the scent of him, clean and distinct even with the salty breeze washing over us.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” The concern in his deep voice matches the concern I see clouding his eyes, and I offer him the smallest smile and a quick nod. “You never answered my question earlier. He didn’t hurt you, did he?”
Only when he says the word hurt do I react. Again. Reaching across my body with my left hand, I massage my shoulder, wincing at the radiating pain that pulsates just beneath my skin. I nudge the loose neck of my shirt away, see the bruise already starting to form just on the outer edge of my shoulder, and he’s suddenly there, standing behind me, tall and looming.
Touching the bare skin of my shoulder like some sort of lover or boyfriend.
I’m not comfortable when someone stands behind me, especially a man. It brings back too many memories, ones I don’t care to think about. But his fingers on my body act like a balm, calming me from the inside out. Tingles sweep over my skin as they probe gently and I hiss in a breath, my gaze meeting his.
“He marked you,” he mutters through gritted teeth, his eyes blazing with anger as his hand falls away from my shoulder.
Excitement fizzes inside of me like soda spouting from the top of a two-liter that’s just been violently shaken. His anger over what happened to me is—exciting. There’s no other word for it. It steals my breath, makes my chest ache, and I rub at it absently. “I’ll be okay. It’s just a bruise.” I brush it off, not wanting him to do something stupid like chase after those boys. As if he could find them. They’re long gone.
Plus, I don’t want to lose him. Not yet.
Modesty attacks, reminding me that my plain white bra strap is on blatant display, and I pull my shirt back over my shoulder, covering the bruise. He steps away, giving a wide berth between us, and I wonder if he realized he was standing too close, acting too familiar.
I wonder more if he knows I didn’t mind.
“Thank you,” I say again because I want him to know just how grateful I am. “For helping me. I, uh, probably didn’t handle it right. I’m really thankful you stepped in.”
It’s his turn to shrug. Those broad shoulders are covered by a thin flannel plaid shirt, dark blue and green, open at the collar and revealing the pristine white T-shirt beneath. He looks—good. Handsome, in that wholesome, strong, virile way, as if he could take two-by-fours and crack them in half with his bare hands.
He’s also much taller than me, with the glasses that remind me of his imperfections and the shiny dark brown hair, curving lips, and hint of scruff lining his jaw and cheeks. Other girls would fall all over him, I’m sure. He doesn’t break the two-by-fours—he probably needs them to ward off half the female population who want to jump him.
“I did what anyone else would’ve done in the same situation,” he says, all understated modesty.
Right. Because I had so many people running to my rescue just now. Same when I was twelve. No one wants to help. No one wants to interfere. They’re all too scared.
Not this man. He stepped right in like it was his calling to rescue me. For that, I will be forever grateful.
“What’s your name?” I ask him, the question startling me. I usually don’t care enough to learn anyone’s name, especially a man’s. I don’t want people to think we’re something that we’ll never ever be. I don’t make friends.