“Oh my God,” he calls out and lowers in front of me. “Are you all right?”
“I, uh, yeah. I’m fine.” I’mnotfine. My pulse is a runaway train, my palms slick with sweat. I flex my legs, testing for pain.
“You walked right in front of my taxi.” His tone isn’t exactly accusing me, he’s just stating a fact.
“It just tapped me.” And that’s when I look at him.
Blond. Tall. Broad. Black leather jacket.His face is thirst-trap material with his cut jaw and shadowed stubble.
Jesus.
My brain itches that I’ve seen him before, but I’m not sure where.
He crouches down and stares at me with eyes the color of emeralds.“Are you sure you’re okay?”
My pulse is racing, and shivers run up my spine. “You just scared me.”
With all this rain and how I’m feeling, I’m not sure whose fault this is. I can move my legs, and as far as I can tell, I can use my fingers, hands, and arms. I’m good.
But his taxi just hit me. The least he can do is pick me up off the ground. And then follow it up with a little mouth-to-mouthjust to be sure.
Girl, calm down.
“Is she dead?” the taxi driver shouts from his idling car in the middle of the road.
“No,” his passenger says dryly.
“I’m out of here.” He slams the rear passenger door closed and then takes off.
“Great, I just lost my ride,” the man says, shaking his head. “Did you hit your head when you stumbled back?”
“Maybe,” I hedge, because I don’t want to be dragged to a hospital. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”
The man leans in closer, and I sigh at his clean scent. Cool Water perhaps, but with a hint of cedar. One hand lifts as if to check me, but he hesitates for some reason. “Look at me.”
I do. And I see beyond beauty. There’s something else there.
His eyes lock with mine, unblinking, and I imagine he’s assessing why I would be walking in a downpour. “You’re shaking,” he says quietly.
“I’m drenched from the rain,” I manage.
He doesn’t ask why I’m walking alone in the storm, carrying a duffel late at night. My smeared mascara and wet clothes scream homeless.
“You have something under your eye.” His gaze flicks to my right cheek, where I was slapped.
“It’s nothing.” I gently tap that spot, and when I feel pain, I figure a bruise must already be forming.
Great.
His jaw tightens, and he asks, “Where are you heading?”
“Nowhere,” I say, then wince. “I mean, nowhere specific.”
His gaze sharpens. “That’s not an answer.”
The streetlights blur in my eyes, and I blink hard, refusing to cry in front of a stranger. I’m tired, hungry,and humiliated. Pierce’s words still ring in my head:No one else will tolerate you like me.
The shame that he might be right sticks to me like old gum on a dirty sidewalk.