He nods slowly. “So, that was your boyfriend who spoke on the news?”
“Oh, God. No!” I roll my eyes. “And if you hear that I’ve been arrested for killing him tomorrow, don’t be surprised.”
Brett’s face lights up with his laugh, a beautiful and deep melodic sound that breaks apart the thick cloud of tension, and I start giggling along with him. Thank God Brenna sleeps like the dead, at least for the first few hours. “Who is he, then?”
“My boss’s nephew. I agreed to go on a blind date with him that night, and it was the worst date I’ve ever been on in my life.”
Brett searches my features, a hint of a smirk touching his lips. Aside from the quick appraisal of my house, I don’t think those eyes have left my face this entire time. It’s unnerving. “I’m guessing it wasn’t so bad, in his opinion?”
“He doesn’t seem to have clued in yet, no.”
“And he thought he’d take full advantage of the situation by promoting his dealership.”
“I’m glad it was that obvious.” I down the rest of my wine and consider going for a refill, but I don’t want this guy thinking I’m a drunk, so I stay put. “So you said in your news thing this afternoon that you’re going to make a full recovery. That’s great.”
For the first time since I sat down, he averts his gaze from me to wander over my kitchen cupboards, an odd, hard expression flickering ever so quickly. He takes another big gulp of his SunnyD, his sharp Adam’s apple bobbing with his swallow, before setting the glass down carefully.
“So . . .” His eyes drift from my face, over my shirt. “You like cats?”
I instinctively fold my arms over my chest, feeling all the more self-conscious in my underwhelming A-cup size. “Only the angry kind.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “How on earth did you pull me out of that car? You’re so small.” He lifts his hands up, palm out. “Don’t take that the wrong way. I’m sure you’re really strong and all, I just can’t see how you did it. I mean, I was imagining a”—his voice cuts off, his brow furrows deeply—“a different sort of woman. But you’re so small and I’m . . . well, look at me.”
I’ve barely stopped looking at you. God, and I’m blushing again. “You must have come to at the last minute and stood.”
His head is already shaking. “I have a broken tibia and a shattered ankle, my shoulder was dislocated, and I had a major concussion. I wasn’t capable of pulling myself out of a bucket seat.”
“Well, then . . .” I let my words drift. I guess that means I, Catherine Wright, pulled a man double my size out of a burning car.
“Well, then . . .” he matches, ensnaring me with his intense eyes. They hide unreadable thoughts I’m suddenly desperate to know.
The spell is broken when Keith hollers at someone outside. “Hey! You want to be arrested for trespassing? No? You’ve got three seconds to . . . Oh, you want to take pictures of me? Sure. Okay . . .” His shouts fade as he no doubt charges for whoever’s testing him, the porch steps creaking under his weight.
“You know they won’t leave you alone, right?”
I sigh. “Until they get their story, yeah, I know.”
His fingertip absently traces the wood grain of my table. “What are you gonna do?”
Just the idea of having a TV camera pointed at me makes me tense up. “I figured Brenna and I would hole up in here for a while, until I figure things out.” But for how long? We can’t stay here forever. When will it be safe to send her to school? If they hound me at my doorstep, will they have the audacity to track my daughter, too?
Brett’s face softens at the mention of Brenna, and he glances behind him, toward the bedroom doors. “That’s your daughter’s name? Brenna?”
I smile and nod.
“She’s sleeping?”
“Obliviously.”
“How old?”
“Five. Six in July.”
“You must have been really young when you had her.”
“Eighteen.”
His mouth opens, but then he hesitates. “What you did for me, it’s a pretty amazing story. People will want to hear it. From you. I wish I could make it all go away, but I’ve been dealing with these people long enough to know I can’t. If you want my advice, it’s best to just get it over with.”
I groan. “That’s what Keith said.”
“Then he’s a smart guy. You should listen to him.”
“He has his moments. But don’t tell him I said that.”
Brett’s chair creaks in protest as he leans back against it. “No pressure at all, but if you want, we can set up an exclusive interview with someone reputable. Give them your story, let people hear it, and they’ll move on to the next thing fast enough. Honestly, waiting will only make it worse. They’re already looking for anything they can on you.” A frown flickers over his brow.
“Yeah, I saw the news.” He doesn’t have to explain further. “It was a long time ago. I thought I was in love. I didn’t think . . .” I fumble over my words. “I was just a stupid teenager who—”
He reaches across to grasp my hand around the stem of my glass. My tongue stops working under that touch. Does he feel what I’m feeling, too? Is his heart racing right now? Or is it just me?
“I don’t care about any of that, and you don’t have to explain yourself.” He lets go and reaches into his pocket with a slight grimace. He pulls out and slides over a folded piece of paper that he obviously prepared before coming here. “Here’s my number. Think about doing the interview and let me know. And you can call me anytime, day or night. Anything you need. Absolutely anything, I’m serious.”
I reach for the paper, our fingertips sliding against each other again. A strange current courses through me, making me keenly aware of every square inch of my skin. The paper’s still warm from sitting in his back pocket. I collect it in my fist, reveling in his body heat.
Brett shrugs. “And who knows? We could probably get a bidding war started. Someone may cut you a big check for this.”
“What?” I blurt out.
I think he mistakes my shock for excitement, because he smiles. “They say they don’t pay for news stories, but that’s bullshit. Everyone wants to hear from the woman who saved me. You may as well cash in on it.”
I can’t keep the scowl from showing. “I don’t want to cash in on this. That’s not why I helped you. I’m not one of those people.” Is that what Brett thinks I am? Someone who looks for ways to make money from tragedy? Someone like my mother?
Or is it because I’m on welfare. Have they reported that yet? It’s not like I want to be on food stamps and getting checks for rent, but I don’t have much choice, with a child and only my GED, which I finally got three years ago.
His eyes widen with apology. “I didn’t mean it like that, I swear. People do it all the time. I just figured . . .” His eyes flicker across my living room before snapping back to me, as if he just realized what he was doing.