He scratched his jaw. Huh. Apparently, OCD-ness came second to Oh-God-he-rejected-me-ness.
Perhaps he should've assured her of her attractiveness with words.
Maybe he should wear a tutu and over-pluck his eyebrows while he was at it.
He crossed the room to the aquarium and dug out a cracked statue of a bronze woman missing her head. The marred scratches across the base were vicious, but the engraving was still legible.
Fitness Model World Championship
1st Place
Amber Rosenfeld
His mouth fell open, though he shouldn't have been surprised. Her body rocked some killer biceps, thighs, and calves, and God knew what lay beneath that dress. It was a rare thing to find a woman with a ten body paired with a ten face, but this fitness model was a hundred from head to toe. So when he pulled out a wad of sashes printed with Miss Tri County, Miss Heart of the USA, and Miss Texas, it wasn't shock that caught his breath. It was a very strong feeling of wonder, reverence, and something akin to fear.
There must've been fifty demolished tiaras and trophies in that tank. Why would she destroy something she'd worked so hard to earn? Or had someone else hurt them? Hurt her? The notion sent blood roaring through his ears, leaving him shaken, edgy, and, worst of all, heartsick.
The sudden urge to flee shuffled him back a step. He needed to shed these feelings, this room, her. The last time he involved his emotions, he got a blade across his face and a bullet in his shoulder. Hard to forget those lessons.
He dropped the sashes in the aquarium and strode toward the hall, not stopping until he heard muffled sniffles through the bathroom door. He braced an arm on the wall beside it.
Could he be the kind of guy who apologized? How about the guy who walked her mail down the driveway?
He pulled a toothpick from its holder in his pocket and stared at the white cotton of his socked feet. The heavy thump of his heart felt way too foreboding.
Thump noted and rejected. He slid the pick between his lips. Her sniveling didn't affect him. Nope. He backed away from the bathroom door, pretending he didn't feel the thump growing harder and faster with each step.
He wasn't her guy, and he sure as fuck didn't need more scars.
At the front door, he slipped on his sneakers and shifted the hood over his head.
He most definitely wasn't Zachary Kaufman, and the fuckwad would be back in three days to honor his Tuesday/Friday tradition.
Could her shipments wait until then? Would she attempt to walk them out that night? What if she had a seizure on the way?
He pressed his gloved fingers against his eyes. Not his goddamned problem. He opened the door and gripped it, fighting not to close it and return to her. Instead, he stepped beneath the somberness of a sleepy sky and slammed the door behind him with enough rattle to reach the bathroom.
The slam of the front door lurched Amber's stomach into a fit of cramps. Van was gone. Gone.
She dropped before the toilet and hung her head. Her mouth swelled with a burst of saliva, and she dry-heaved until her throat was raw. But the pain was nothing compared to the hot stabs of self-loathing perforating her insides.
What did she expect? She'd strutted her crazy all over the house and thought he'd hang around and maybe have sex with her? No shit, she'd overestimated her worth. Though, to be fair, he'd been the first man to reject her offer.
This was her fault. She hadn't even tried to seduce him. She should've said something sexy, maybe flashed a nipple. A man like Van could have any woman he wanted. He wouldn't have just shoved her on the bed and fucked her because she wore a skimpy dress.
A strand of hair fell in her face, and she shoved it away. She used to turn heads once without even trying, but that was then. She'd lost her edge. Beauty faded, and certainly being shut in and crazy for two years had sped that along.
And now she faced an impossible trip to the mailbox. Thumbs up, Amber. Job well done.
Her chin quivered. Pathetic crybaby. She locked her jaw, pushed away from the toilet, and sat on her heels. Beside her, the shower plinked a steady drip, a reminder that it would be several more months before she could afford to repair it.
It took four attempts to stand, and when she finished brushing her teeth, her heart rate rallied, ready to panic all over again.
Fuck that. She breathed deeply, engaging her abs, and forced her feet to move to the front door. Her head swam with dizziness, and by the time she locked the deadbolt four times, the heave of her lungs had elevated into hyperventilation.
Stop it. She could peek out the window and make sure he wasn't on the porch.
She sucked in, sharply. No, she couldn't. Looking outside was a surefire way to make this night worse. Besides, there was no way he stuck around.