Page 62 of Look, Don't Touch

“How do you do that?” I study him, walking in step beside me. In my heels, I just reach his chin. So close and without a blindfold on, he’s not as meaty as I thought. He’s leaner, but his presence makes him larger than life.

“Do what?”

“Move all that.” I gesture toward him. “With not so much as a footstep?”

We reach the Guggenheim, and he stops. For whatever reason, I do too.

“I learned to move quietly out of necessity.” He nibbles his bottom lip. It’s a new thing. Or maybe it’s not, and I’m only seeing it now. Either way, it’s endearing as fuck. “It’s been years, but I can’t stop myself.”

“It’s common among soldiers, prisoners of war, survivors of abuse. Reading a room, constantly assessing for danger, learning what minimizes the attacks. It becomes the only lifeline.”

I take my hands out of my pockets because it feels rude to hide them when he’s opening up. “When the danger is finally gone, it takes time and strategies to rewire the brain’s way of thinking.”

“People in the office hate it.” His intelligent brow bumps, and his thick lips form a quick half smirk.

“I bet you hear all the hot gossip.” My mouth is stretched into a dumb smile.

“More than I ever wanted to know.” His grimace is cute. “I seem to scare the shit out of people.”

“Most of us are like two-legged deer. Always ready for flight, not fight.”

His dark eyes narrow. “Not you.”

“No, I’m not fight or flight.” I ball my fingers into fists to try to warm them. “I just don’t engage. Not ever.”

Usually.

“Doesn't sound healthy, either.” He turns to face the direction of his house.

“It’s not.” My smile falters. My fingers feel like they’re about to fall off.

“Let me drive you?”

“Then who will keep the workers from trying to seduce beautiful women who walk by?”

“If you’re with me, it can’t happen.” His head cants in further invitation, and then he starts to walk back the way we’d come.

And I fall in line and bite back my grin. “Smooth talker.”

“Not really.” His perfectly styled hair shakes. “Just honest. To a fault, many times.”

“Nah. Honesty is the best policy.”

“Even when it hurts people?”

“In my experience, lies hurt worse than the ugliest truth.”

And isn’t that the biggest truth of all.

He draws a deep breath. “Indeed, you’re right.”

We’re both quiet as he leads me down the sidewalk, up the steps, and into a warmly decorated home. It’s filled with ornate but minimal furniture and rich colors. The bones of the home are an architect’s wet dream. A scrawled staircase curves up the grand foyer. Two sitting rooms bracket the space, whose ceiling is open and bright all the way up to a sculpted metal and glass skylight that encompasses the whole vestibule.

I scurry to catch up as he continues on through a short corridor that shows an opulent dining room to the right and flows into a kitchen someone who cooks would absolutely drool over. From there, he glides over the black and white checked tiles, weaves around the marble countertops, and opens a door pouring so much light into the space that I might need shades.

Obediently, I follow, and I’m spat out into Narnia.

My breath catches, and my feet stop. Warmth infuses my body. When I finally take a breath, fresh air filters out the muck in my lungs.

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