Page 20 of The Misfit

“I …” The word sticks in my throat as I watch someone across the room sneeze into their hand. One, two, three seconds of pure horror.

Lee follows my gaze and stands smoothly. “Hold that thought. I’ll be right back.”

I watch him walk across the room, and without meaning to, I start counting his steps. He stops at the fancy built-in fridge, peers inside, and pulls out a sealed water bottle. My breath catches in my throat when he grabs a paper towel and wipes it down before returning.

“Still sealed.” He smiles, presenting it with a flourish but maintaining that careful distance. “And sanitized because I’m a gentleman.”

“You’re something,” I mutter but accept the bottle.Gentleman?I don’t know about that. Our fingers don’t touch, but an electric current ripples between us, zinging across my skin.

“Oh, I’m definitely something.” His tone is playful. He plops back down on the couch and turns to face me. “Care to find out more?”

The line is pure Lee Sterling—flirty, provocative, and designed to charm. It would work if I were anyone else, and it still does, kinda, but it doesn’t stop me from seeing the dark waters beneath. From seeing the truth.

“You don’t have to do this,” I whisper, adjusting the bottle until it sits perfectly aligned with the coaster’s edge.

“Do what?”

“This.” I gesture back and forth between us. “Pretend. Play the nice guy, the one who keeps a safe distance. I don’t want your …” The muscles in my throat constrict as I force myself to speak. “Pity.”

His playful expression vanishes. “Pity?”

“I know what people say about me. I know why they …” My voice cracks, and all the insecurities I carry bleed through. “Please … just … don’t pretend. Don’t act like you care if you really don’t. I promise I’d rather have your honesty than your pity.”

“Salem.”He knows my name.That’s not the jarring part, though. It’s the way he says it, with authority and control, that makes me look up. His intense gaze is focused entirely on me. “Do I look like a guy who does anything he doesn’t want to do?”

Stupidly, I feel compelled to trust him, trust that his intentions are pure, but I’ve allowed myself to be led blindly by putting my trust in others, and in the end, the only one who got hurt was me.

“I don’t know who you are, so I can’t really say. What I do know is that you like to play games,” I snap, my anxiety making the words come out harsher than intended. “And while it might be cliché, everyone knows guys like you find it fun to mess with the crazy girl just to see what happens.”

“Stop.” His voice is soft but firm.

Lifting his hand, he reaches for me, and instinct makes me flinch because anyone touching me sends my nervous system into shutdown mode. Except him, I consider, thinking back to the night in the pantry. Or maybe the alcohol helped lessen the anxiety? Seeing my building reaction, he freezes, then slowly lowers his hand.

“Guys like me?” He scoffs. “Not all of us are assholes. Have I given you any reason to think I’m some douchebag who plans to hurt you?”

Shit. Did I offend him?

“Like I said, I don’t know you, and I don’t want to pass judgment, either. That would be unfair, but I hear what’s said about you. Rumors spread quickly, you know that. I don’t believe even half of what I hear, but when you confirm many of the things yourself, it’s hard not to believe,” I whisper. “Honestly, it just seems wrong of you to be sitting here, talking to the weird girl when you could be somewhere else.”

“What’s your point? It’s my choice to sit here.” His tone is all matter-of-fact. “I don’t take orders from anyone, and sitting with you has nothing to do with pity. Besides, what you said isn’t true. I know some things about you,Salem Masters.” He shakes his head. “You aren’t as invisible as you try to be. Have you ever thought that maybe I like that you’re different? That you see through my bullshit? Maybe I’m tired of dancing and flirting and beingLee fucking Sterlingall the time.” My emotions hook onto a certain rawness laced into his words.

He looks away as if to hide his feelings, and when he looks back, he has this sad smile. “I know you want to help people, heal them. I know you like one coffee shop in town, only one. And I know you’ve got a secret that is tearing you up physically and mentally.”

I catch another glimpse of that shattered man, the one who’s perfected being the person everyone else wants him to be. He’s spent so much time pretending to be someone he’s not that he’s lost sight of who he is and what he wants.

My heart aches at the reminder because that was me before I lost it. I’m still that broken girl now, wishing for normal but no longer capable of pretending to be something she isn’t. Instead, I’m the example of what happens when you pretend for too long.

Before I can fall down that hole, I change the subject.

“Have you been following me?”

His dark gaze narrows, and his brown hair falls over his brow. “Just some light social media stalking.”

“I’m hardly ever on social media, so I doubt you got all that information from Facebook or Instagram.”

He shrugs. “I can be very persuasive when I need to be, and I’ve taken a special interest in you, Pantry Girl.”

I’m not sure I like the sound of that. “Why? There’s nothing special about me.”

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