Page 10 of Devil's Thirst

“Oh, okay. Well, it was good to meet you…” I wait for his answer to my implied question.

“Call me Isaac.”

What an odd way to introduce himself.

Good grief, Mel. Stop overanalyzing every-freaking-thing.

Fine, but it’s still weird.

“And you may call me Amelie,” I say with a hint of mock formality.

You are so going to hell. What if this man is genuinely neurodivergent, and you’re mocking him?

If I had a hand available, I’d clamp it over my mouth to keep me from saying anything more. I don’t know what’s come over me. Something about his unrelenting intensity makes me desperate to shatter his composure, and that’s so not me. Not even close.

I spent seventeen years doing everything I could to earn the approval of everyone around me and the next four years trying to simply go unnoticed. I’ve never been difficult for the sake of being difficult until this very moment. It’s strange and a little electrifying. And I don’t feel quite so guilty when I note the tiniest twitch of his lips.

Was that amusement? It’s hard to say because it’s gone the second it registers, his mask of stoic indifference slipping back into place.

I give him a thin smile and start to squeeze around him. “Enjoy your evening,” I mutter once I’m free.

“Amelie.” My name on his lips is a lasso cinched tight around my waist, forcing my attention back to him. I stand, breathless as I watch him bend over and retrieve something off the floor, then lazily stalk toward me.

“You dropped this.” In his hand is the zippered silicon pouch I keep in my purse filled with sewing supplies.

I try to take it from him, but he shifts, indicating he’s not done examining its contents. “It’s a sewing kit for my shoes.”

“You sew your shoes?”

“Pointe shoes. I’m a ballet dancer.” I don’t necessarily want to tell him about myself, but I’ll sound like a total weirdo if I don’t explain. Women my age don’t normally carry around sewing kits.

He slides the pouch back into my tote purse. “You really should have let me give you a hand,” he continues in that devastatingly sultry tone of his.

“Why’s that?” I ask dazedly.

“Because then I would have had a reason to come inside.” The heat that flashes in his eyes and the implication of his words catches me by surprise. Is this man … coming onto me? I’d questioned seconds ago whether he might be on the spectrum, but now, I’m starting to wonder if he’s simply toying with me.

He’s impossible to read—that alone should have me running in the opposite direction. I like attention as much as the next girl, but this man is one giant red flag.

“That’s not going to happen,” I say softly, hoping I don’t anger him. I’ve known him all of two seconds and have no ideawhat rejection might do to him. I discreetly punch in the code to my door and turn the handle.

He leans his broad shoulder against the doorframe. “And why’s that?” he asks in a soft murmur that matches my own words. The words feather across my skin, clearly meant to seduce. “Is someone waiting inside for you?”

His question winds me like a punch to the gut.

He has no idea that he’s struck at my most exposed nerve, and I don’t care to share that with him, so I douse my sparking anger with a cauldron of icy water.

I consider lying to him for a split second as I stare motionless at my door. It’s only the briefest whisp of a thought brought on by shame that I refuse to give power to.

The fact that I am alone is not a reflection of who I am or my worth.

I say the words in my head with fierce conviction, yet the backs of my eyes still burn from the unintended reminder.

“No, there’s not,” I say before boldly meeting his stare. Who cares if he can see the glassy tinge to my eyes?

I don’t offer any further explanation. I don’t have to. I owe this man nothing. Instead, I let myself inside and close the door behind me.

CHAPTER 7

---