Page 71 of Escaping Our Reality

“I can’t let you in because I’m ready for bed. I’ve already washed my face. I have no makeup, no cute clothes, and my hair is messed up.”

I was not expecting that answer.

What am I supposed to do with that answer?

I do what I probably shouldn’t. I always do what I probably shouldn’t.

I burst out laughing. I laugh so hard I give myself a stitch in my side.

“Ryland Joseph Crutchfield, so help me, if you don’t stop laughing,I am gonna flip my crap. And it will make your outburst seem tame.”

I rub my hands over my eyes. “Are you serious, Lulu? You won’t let me in the house because you don’t have mascara on? I thought someone was in there trying to kill you.”

“Why would someone be in here? It’s the middle of the night.”

I throw my hands up in the air. “Precisely.”

“Well, like I said, you’ll just have to wait until tomorrow when we see each other. Well, I guess I mean later today, since it’s so late.”

“I don’t care that you don’t have makeup on. Or normal clothes.” I chuckle. “In fact, all clothes are overrated. Strip down. Open the door. I need to tell you something.”

“You may not care, but I do.”

“Why?”

“I’ll ruin the illusion.”

I lean against the door. “What illusion?”

She does the same. The door thumps against the sag of her body. “Of being pretty.”

Holy. Shit.

Did My Lulu just say that?

“What in the world are you talking about?”

“Ry, look at you. You know what you look like. Women basically throw their panties at you all day long. You’ve only seen me with makeup and nice clothes and fixed hair. Girls look different without that stuff. What if you think I don’t look pretty? I mean, guys hit on me, but guys hit on anything, right? It doesn’t necessarily mean I’m beautiful. Carrie is the pretty one, not me.”

The thought of other guys hitting on her sends me into a spiral of rage. Before spinning too far down, I try to focus on the problem in front of me. Or, rather, the problem behind the thick wooden door. “Lulu, I can’t believe that you would even fathom the possibility of me not being attracted to you. It’s…it’s… impossible. I can’t even think of the words to describe how unrealistic that comment is. You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever laid eyes on, the most beautiful woman. Makeup. No makeup. Burned and scarred and disfigured… in my mind, in my heart, in my eyes, you’re the only thing of beauty in a world filled with ugly.”

Slowly, the door creaks open, one centimeter at a time. I rush inside, eager to have her in my arms. I slam the door closed with my foot. She’s standing in the shadows so I can’t even fully see her, but then she takes a step back. Her whole body is illuminated from the lamp on the side table between the couch and loveseat.

I try to swallow, but nothing happens. My throat is paralyzed with awe.

This is her. This is My Lulu.

Her glossy, golden brown hair is piled high on her head in a messy bun. Strands poke out in every direction. Her face is clean, washed fresh. Fucking perfection. Her honey and amber-colored eyes look brighter and darker all at the same time, driving me insane with the need to study them. The black ring around her iris shines like black diamonds. She’s wearing a hot pink sweatshirt, over an oversized T-shirt. The hem of the T-shirt grazes the tops of her thighs. The thighs I can’t get enough of. The thighs I lick with my tongue when I’m getting ready to go down on her, getting her ready to scream my name.

My gaze makes her nervous. She reaches around, fondling the scar on her neck.

“Oh, Lulu.” I hope she can hear it in my voice. Because I’m a pussy and can’t talk.

She does. She hears it. I know she does. Because she blushes and licks her lips.

I bite my own lip, raking my eyes over her again and again. “You’re beautiful.”

She holds her head up high, staring deeply into my eyes. “Thank you.”

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