Walking me to my bed, he sits me down, then walks out my bedroom door. Not thirty seconds pass when I hear the shower start, then he’s back in my room.
He doesn’t even look at me, just goes through my drawers, pulling out items of clothing for me.
So while I have a moment, I take him in.
If I saw this man on the street, the way he’s dressed right now, I would put my head down and walk the other way. And pray to God that he doesn’t see me do that, because a man looking like this while being pissed off is surely not a good thing.
He is gorgeous, though. Just not in a conventional way.
He’s tall, a little over six feet, with a muscular body and olive skin. His dark brown hair is shaved close to the scalp at the sides, but long on the top. He wears dark blue jeans that encase his long and powerful legs, a white tee that covers his broad chest and shoulders, and he’s rocking white sneakers and a thick black leather belt. But it’s what’s under the tee that draws me in.
Tattoos line his arms and neck. He has a small 13 tattooed on his right cheekbone.
The backs of his hands are beautiful. There’s no other word for it. On the back of the left hand is an intricate, black-shaded rose with a smoky grey outline; the right hand has a grey-shaded skull with smoke lacing through it. It looks so lifelike, I shiver.
Oh God.
“You’re hurt.”
His knuckles are bleeding and swollen.
Stopping in his tracks, he turns his hooded eyes to me. They aren’t hooded in a sexy way, just a bored, broody kind of way. Permanently.
It looks good on him.
He’s handsome and would look something like a clothing model without the tattoos. He has a strong chin, full bottom lip, and high cheekbones. His eyes are a soft brown. He mumbles, “Don’t worry about it. Go shower.”
Not sure why I’m taking orders from a man who likes to watch me from under a hood, but I am. As soon as I stand, the hair on the back of my neck prickles, and I ask his retreating back, “Will you still be here when I get out?”
Turning slowly, he watches me curiously from those hooded eyes. We watch each other for a good thirty seconds before he asks in that husky voice, “You want me to be?”
Not trusting myself to speak, I avoid his eyes and nod.
I feel immediate relief when he nods in return, turns, and orders, “Shower.”
Taking my robe off the back of my bedroom door, I shuffle my way into my small bathroom and undress without looking in the mirror. If I look in the mirror at the state of myself right now, I know I’ll be past freaked-out. In fact, I’m sort of questioning why I’m not freaking out more than I am.
Stupidly, I peek at my reflection and bark out a laugh.
The mirror is so fogged that I can’t see a thing. It just wasn’t meant to be.
Undressing quickly, I step into the scalding hot spray, and hold myself there for as long as possible without actually getting burned. Reaching out blindly, I turn the knobs until the spray turns cooler and think about what just happened to me.
Did I really just get assaulted by a big scary man, then get saved by my stalker?
…Yeah. That about sums it up.
The first tear comes hard.
The next comes easier.
The rest fall freely, as if they were summoned by the first.
Holding a palm up to the wall of the shower to steady myself, my body shakes in silent sobs.
I don’t want him to hear me.
Breathing deeply, I pull myself together and use the last of my energy to wash my hair. I soap up, rinse off, and head out.
Wrapping myself in my robe, I brush out my hair, then exit the bathroom to hear movement in the kitchen. Stepping into my room, I drop the robe and dress in the clothes he’s laid out for me.
It’s only once I’m dressed that I realize he’s chosen my favorite pajama combo.
Coincidence?
Somehow, I think not.
Making my way down the hall in my Elmo pajama pants, white tank, and wet hair, I slowly walk into my TV room, glancing around cautiously. From where I stand, I see him standing in the doorway of the refrigerator with his back to me.
Knowing there’s nothing in there for him to eat, I cringe. From what little I know about him, I know that I always see him on the street, wearing the same clothes. My caseworker brain automatically assumes he’s homeless.
My chest squeezes. He must be hungry.
I clear my throat and he turns to me, “Hungry?”
My brows furrow in confusion. Shouldn’t I be the one asking that?
“Uh, no. I don’t think I could eat, even if I wanted to.”
He nods thoughtfully, then asks, “You good?” while eyeing my body.
Dipping my chin, I answer back softly, “Yes. And I would’ve been a hundred times worse if you weren’t there, so...”
My heart races. I’m suddenly nervous and antsy.
“Th-thank you. F-for what you did back there,” I stutter.
His glacial eyes bore into mine. He mocks, “Don’t kid yourself.”