Page 39 of The Stranger
The loss and devastation I felt when I first found out about the affair pales in comparison to what I’m experiencing right now. I’ve never felt more alone in my life. I can’t stay here with these people. It’s obvious where their loyalties will always lie.
I lift my suitcase onto my bed and unzip it as I begin to throw all my belongings inside. My hands are shaking as I slide my phone out of the back pocket of my denim skirt and dial Spencer’s number. I have nowhere else to turn.
The moment I hear his voice, I break down.
“Delilah, sweetheart … fuck, what’s wrong?” His concern only seems to wreck me further.
“I … I …” The tears are coming thick and fast and I’m so overcome with emotion I can’t even string two words together.
“Hold tight. I’m turning the car around now … I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
True to his word, I can hear someone bashing on the front door a short time later. It’s followed by some commotion in the hallway before my bedroom doorswings open so violently it hits the adjoining wall with a thud, startling me.
I turn to see Spencer standing in my doorway. His breathing is rapid, and the concern etched all over his handsome face is evident. In an instant, he’s stalking across the room and folding me in his big muscular arms.
He holds me, tenderly rubbing his hand up and down the length of my spine until the tears stop. Once I’ve settled somewhat, he gently cups my face in his hands and tilts my head back so he can get a better look at me. His eyes search mine briefly, but when they flicker down to my cut lip, I see his worried expression morph into something else.
Leaning down, he briefly places his lips against my hair. His tenderness has the tears rising to my eyes again. He doesn’t ask me how I am; he can see I’m not okay. He doesn’t even probe as to what happened, but when he glances at my open suitcase on the bed—with my clothes haphazardly thrown inside—he releases me.
I watch on as he grabs the last of my things off the mattress, and stores them inside my suitcase before zipping it up. Once he manoeuvres it onto the floor, one of his hands wraps around the handle, while the other reaches for mine. Then he starts walking. Out of my room, down the hallway, and through the front door. He gets me seated in the car first, securing my seat belt, before stowing my suitcase on the back seat.
We travel to his house in complete silence, but his big strong hand remains wrapped around mine for the entire journey. It anchors me, and for the first time in a long time, I feel seen, cared for, and safe.
Words cannot convey how grateful I am to this man.
When we arrive at Spencer’s apartment building, it’s close to midnight. It’s a rinse and repeat of last night when he picked me up from work and brought me here for the first time … with one obvious distinction.
Once we’ve parked in the underground parking area of his building, he helps me from the car and collects my bag, but this time when we cross the polished concrete, heading for the elevator that will take us up to his floor, he reaches for my hand and entwines our fingers together.
I glance up at him, but he keeps his face trained forward. I can see by the pinch of his eyebrows that he’s still angry … and I’m hoping it’s not with me. The last thing this man needs is my family’s drama to add to his already stressful life.
When we reach the elevator, he stabs at the button with more ferocity than needed. “I’m sorry,” I murmur.
His gaze snaps down to me. “You have nothing to be sorry for, Delilah,” he barks, and when his grip on my hand tightens, I feel a lump rise to the back of my throat.
“I only called you—” I dip my face before continuing, “—because I had nobody else.”
“I’m glad you did,” is all he says.
The ride up to his floor is silent. After entering his apartment, he abandons my suitcase in the main room and leads me down the long hallway—past the room I slept in last night and towards his bedroom. The one he distinctively told me was off-limits.
As soon as I realise that, I try to tug my hand out of his grip, but he holds tight. “Where are you taking me?”
“To my bathroom, to clean up your face.”
“Oh.”
Deep frown lines mar his forehead as he stops in front of his bedroom door and glances down at me. “Where didyou think I was taking you?” When I grimace, he follows up with, “Never mind, don’t answer that.”
He flicks on the light when we enter, and my gaze moves around his bedroom as we pass through. Last night as I lay in bed, the perverted and obsessive side of me—the side I’ve only recently discovered—wondered what his room looked like, and if he slept in pyjamas, his underwear … or God forbid, naked.
His space is nothing like I imagined, apart from being luxurious. It’s masculine, and a touch broody, with dark blue walls and bulky wooden furniture. The scent of his cologne still lingers in the air. It smells exotic, musky, and delicious, just like him.
My skin prickles as I stare over at his neatly made king-size bed that sits smack-bang in the middle of the room. Beyond is a row of floor-to-ceiling windows that line the far wall. I bet the view from up here is spectacular.
As soon as we enter the bathroom, which is just as lavish as the rest of his place, he releases my hand. “Sit,” he orders, gesturing to the side of the giant bathtub. I do as he asks, and my fingers nervously knot in my lap as he rifles through the drawer beneath the vanity.
He lays everything out on the marble countertop once he finds what he’s looking for. I suck in a sharp breath when he turns to face me. He looks like he’s experiencing some sort of emotional distress as he gazes down at me and it tugs at my wounded heart. I never should have gotten him involved in this mess.
