Page 101 of Look, Don't Touch

Finally, I’m able to function just a little, and I find my reflection in the mirror.

“Oh my goodness.” My eyes snap shut at the horror reflected back.

“Open your eyes, Hailey.”

I do, but I look immediately at his reflection over my shoulder. His gaze is warm but taut. “Look at my siren.” My gaze pleads, but he’s insistent. “Now.”

Drawing in a deep breath, I look at myself. The mascara left on my lashes is clumped together in a ratty mess, while the rest has run rivers down my cheeks and neck. My hair has fully morphed into the beast. It’s frizzy and disorganized, sort of like my insides feel.

“She is stunning. She is kind. She makes the world a better place. She is bold and unafraid of her desire. She is strong and independent. She is capable of all things, including vulnerability and love.” He lifts a warm rag to my face and gently removes every scrap of makeup. His fingers smooth the furrow over my brow. “Isn’t she?”

I grab his hand and kiss his palm because I don’t know if I am. I hold tight to his hand and stand tall in the mirror, really looking at myself. At my bright eyes and swollen lips, at my pink cheeks and soft smile. Then I find his eyes.

“I want to be.”

“That’s what my old therapist would call progress.” He kisses my temple and then tugs me back to the leather chair, where he pulls my dress over my head. He smooths my hair back. “Let me cook you dinner?”

I should go home and wash the day off. I should pull on sweats and drown in a pint of ice cream and foul television. I should cuddle Plinko close to my chest and be safe.

Being safe has gotten me far in life, but being safe won’t get me what I suddenly want more than anything I’ve ever wanted.

“Yes.”

I wake in a cocoon of lush sheets and a down comforter. My body stretches like a starfish, luxuriating in the decadence. Then my right side burns. The synapses of my brain are slow to spark, but the fire on my skin helps jumpstart the process. My sheets aren’t this cozy. My comforter isn’t this soft. They’re for aesthetic more than feel.

My eyes flutter open. Warm sunlight filters in from a shaded skylight overhead. It and a large window along the wall to my right illuminate a foreign landscape. It’s filled with rich colors and fabrics, art and architecture.

“Holy shit.” My whisper doesn’t get far from my lips, like it too is caught up in the awe of detailed crown molding and scrawled metal work. Things I didn’t know I enjoyed quite so much until I moved to New York. The lobby of my building is as intricate, but not every room in my apartment.

I push to sit, and my side screams. Memories flood back. Iowa. The plane. The man. The tattoo. My gaze skitters around, landing on a glass of water, two pills that look like run-of-the-mill painkillers on a nightstand, and a fluffy robe draped across an antique armchair covered in fabric I’d love to have a skirt made in.

The ornate clock on the wall reads ten fifty-three. I blink and give it another whirl because it’s been a while since I’ve tangoed with a clock with actual hands. It’s also been a while since I’ve slept this late, judging by my accurate first read.

My gaze slips to the other side of the bed. As I expected, it’s empty. The sheets are neatly pulled up, but there is an indent in the pillow where a head once laid. I run my fingers over the divot. The pillowcase is cold to the touch. I vaguely remember falling asleep in the back of the car, tucked in his arms. That’s about it.

A new basilisk grins up at me. I smile down at him, forgo the pain meds, but drink heartily. I’m parched and naked. My smile grows. I slip from the bed, and my feet land on a lush rug before I pull on the robe and go to the window, which is actually a balcony that overlooks the magical greenhouse.

So much wealth. So little luck.

I make my way out of the bedroom and down a corridor that leads to the massive skylight I saw Monday at the top of the grand staircase. I count them as I descend but lose count only one story down because the walls are filled with art that steals my attention, malforms it, and then tosses it along to the next wonder. By the time I reach the main floor, I’m wide awake, and my heart thunders in my chest.

There’s no way he carried me up all those flights.

My feet bring me through the way I went the last time I was here. I find him with his head inside the refrigerator and ingredients spread across the island. Used pans and spatulas litter the gas cooking range.

His back is clad in a white long-sleeved T-shirt, and his fine ass is defined in charcoal-gray sweatpants. When he retreats, there’s an apple hanging by his teeth, an old-school jug of milk in one hand, and a small pitcher of juice in the other.

“Need some help?” I keep my voice soft, hoping I don’t startle him.

He smiles around his apple. His knee catches a stubborn side of the refrigerator that stays open. Then he sets the things in his hands on the counter and takes a bite of the apple. It crunches in the quiet of the kitchen.

“Yes, you can come eat with me before I starve to death.”

Arlo Judge has been mysterious, withholding, hot, demanding, sweet, and sultry, but I’ve never seen a man look as cute as he does right now. It’s like he’s shed years of worry in the past twelve hours.

I pinch my lips between my teeth, but my growing smile reclaims them. “Absolutely.” I’m slow to push forward, embarrassment taking its toll.

A boyish wave urges me ahead. He abandons his apple on the counter, grabs the jugs, and heads toward the back door. “I hope you’re hungry.” He holds it open for me as we walk back into Narnia. It steals my breath once more.

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