I don’t want friends.
He appears just as startled by my question as I am. “Ethan.” He pauses, swallows. I see the movement of his Adam’s apple and I have the sudden, unbidden image of myself sitting in his lap, my mouth pressed right there, just below his chin, begging him to say something, anything, so I can feel the tickle of movement beneath my lips.
Ethan. Ethan. I like it. Oh, God, I really like it.
He clears his throat, startling me from my inappropriate thoughts. “What’s yours?”
My what? Oh. My name.
This is hard. What if he recognizes me when I say it? Not that I’m egotistical enough to think I’m famous after being on TV and that he’d know me, know my face and my first name like I’m freaking Madonna or whatever, but . . . the media hounded my mother those first days after the interview aired. My face was plastered all over the Internet. My name was trending on search engines and Twitter that entire weekend.
Trending on Twitter—who can make that claim? My life is surreal, I swear.
But then bright and early the following Monday morning, a scandal rocked the political world. A controversial and extremely conservative senator was accused of having an affair with one of his twenty-one-year-old interns. A fresh-faced girl straight out of a good Midwestern college, and just like that her blond good looks replaced mine on the Web. I’d never been more thankful for someone else’s problems.
“I’m Katherine,” I finally say, not offering a last name but neither did he, so I’m sure he won’t think it unusual. We’re not on exchanging-last-name terms.
Yet.
Oh God, did I really think yet?
Yes, I did.
He smiles again. Friendly. Unassuming. My hackles always rise when someone looks at me like this, acts like this. But for once, I feel nothing but calm.
I feel nothing but hundreds of butterflies whirling and spinning in my stomach.
She’s standing so close, the sweet scent of her floats in the air, surrounding me, causing my head to spin, my vision getting spotty. I blink hard, needing to see her this close after going for so long without her. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen, but I couldn’t sit back and let those assholes steal her purse. I did what I was supposed to do and instead of walking away, I’m taking advantage while I can. While I have this moment so I can memorize everything that unfolds and revisit it later. Turn the words we said, the looks we exchanged, around and around in my mind, searching for a sign, a clue that she cares.
That she might recognize me.
Not what I want, though. Not at all.
I’m struck dumb by her beauty. Seeing her on TV with the lights and the heavy makeup gave the illusion that she’s this big, grand thing, more than what she really is. Not just Katie Watts but Katherine Watts, the poor little girl abducted from one of the happiest places in all of California. A happy place turned into a nightmare by a man who scared the hell out of every parent who lives in this cloying, small, coastal beach town.
I’m veering off track but it’s so easy to do with her like this. The memories are there, hovering on the edge, when I’m desperate to savor the here and now. I focus on her. The way she’s standing in front of me, achingly beautiful with not a stitch of makeup on, her cheeks rosy, her eyes that beautiful dark blue I’ve never seen on anyone else. The color of twilight, right before the sunlight fades forever into the night. Navy-blue velvet that twinkles with little white stars, just a hint of purple smudging the edges, accompanied by the faintest streak of pinkish orange. So faint you think you almost imagined it.
That’s the color of her eyes. Like a fucking poem or something. Having her here like this clearly renders me a lovesick poet.
I can’t stop staring at her. The sun shines upon her hair, turning the thick strands varying shades of gold and cream, and she’s looking at me what feels like every few seconds—God, does she like me? I sound like a stupid kid—smiling at me, so shy and open and vulnerable and curious, it’s . . .
Fucking killing me.
This is what I’ve sought for years. This instant connection that Katie and I share. Energy crackles in the air between us and I wonder if she feels it. I’m drawn to her and she doesn’t have to say a word, doesn’t have to do so much as look at me, and I want more. So much more than she could ever willingly give.
I’m not walking away now. Hell no. I about lost my shit when those punks tried to take her purse. That she held on so tight, wasn’t willing to give it up—I couldn’t believe it. The last thing I wanted to have happen—me intervening in her life, the words too soon, too soon throbbing in time with my beating heart—but I had to do it. I had to rescue her.