Page 8 of Show Me How
“Are you sure? You looked like you were running from something.”
I almost laugh at how right he is. Only, I’m pretty sure nobody is chasing after me. I’m running from my life, not necessarily one person, although Chadwick isn’t someone I’m interested in keeping around.
“I’m fine,” I say.
The mystery man taps the door. “Alright.”
I assume he’s left when I don’t reply and he doesn’t try forcing me to. Facing the mirror again, I focus on my dress. The fabric is soaking wet when I take the skirt into my hands and wring it out over the sink. Mud stains my fingers, and I let it.
After what feels like forever, I let the skirt fall back to cover my legs. It’s not perfect, but the dripping has stopped. I wiggle my toes in my wet socks and pull my hair free of the bun. With a shake of my head, I let the damp strands fall to my shoulders. It’s not perfect, but after a bit of touching up, it looks better than it did.
I have to make peace with this. It won’t get any better until I find somewhere to stay tonight.
Breathing deeply, I grip the door handle and pull.
“You weren’t lying.”
I jump into the air and whip my head in the direction of the voice. The man from the bar is leaning against the wall, his hands in his hoodie pocket and that dark gaze latched onto me without a single ounce of hesitation. I feel pinned in place, unable to do anything other than stand here and try not to gape at the perfection of his features.
He’s so intimidating. The urge to shrink inside myself is there, and if I weren’t so dead to every emotion I’m feeling, I’d probably give in. Tonight, I’m not who I’ve been for the last twenty-six years. I’m someone else, a sliver of the person I wonder I could be if given the chance.
“What?” I ask, almost breathlessly.
“You didn’t pass out.”
Blinking repeatedly, I nod and grip the side of my dress. “No. I didn’t pass out.”
“You don’t sound very relieved by that,” he notes, reading too much into what I’ve said.
“How would you know what I sound like? I didn’t want to pass out. Not here.”
Intrigue flickers across his face. “Not here? What exactly is it about this place that you don’t trust?”
“I didn’t say that I don’t trust it.”
“So, what is it, then? It’s just not up to your standards?”
I narrow my gaze. “What does that mean?”
“What should it mean?”
“I’m leaving,” I state briskly.
He nods, waving me past him. I’m a step down the hall when my stomach grumbles. I grow warm, too busy wondering if he’s heard it to catch the shift of his body.
Without touching me, he manages to catch my attention with a wave of his fingers. I twist to see him behind me, so close that I have to crane my head back to find his eyes. “Let me get you something to eat first.”
“There’s food here?” I ask, unable to deny how hungry I am.
His mouth turns down slightly. “Yeah, there’s food here. Do you not have places like this where you’re from?”
“If there are, I haven’t been to one,” I admit, more to myself than him.
“Well, it’s your lucky day, then. Peakside has the best poutine I’ve ever had.”
My stomach grumbles again, and the grin that spreads his lips threatens to send me into a spiral. It’s so pure yet somehow has this sinful twist to it. This is the kind of smile only a man who knows how good-looking he is can pull off.
I hesitate to accept his offer, regardless of how badly I could use a good meal after the day I’ve had.
