Stop thinking about him.
Cranking up the music, I run faster, head lowered against the rush of cold wind. The city is asleep, snow glittering in the hollows along the fences. My breath fogs the air. My heart thumps against my ribs—a steady, comforting rhythm. My ponytail whips my back, and strands escaping the hairband stick to my sweaty face.
I run alongside buildings and houses, the sound of my shoes hitting the concrete merging with the music beat coming through my earbuds. All my focus is on keeping up the rhythm, on keeping up the speed for a while longer.
This is good. The worries and doubts are gone, my mind empty, a sparkling blank.
Tall trees line the street. The fences are high, and through the gates I see expensive two-story houses, their white facades done in the colonial style. Never been this way before during my runs. I normally head toward the center, pass by my favorite bakery and buy breakfast, but this... This is a pretty place.
The sun is rising over the buildings, a pale disk, half-hidden behind clouds. Time to turn back, eat something, do laundry, clean up… get ready for work.
Another exciting Sunday.
I slow down to a walk, then stop, panting, and do some stretches. I ran longer than I’m used to, but it was good. My head is clear for the first time in ages.
Bracing my hands on my thighs, I take deep breaths. My ponytail slips over my shoulder, hitting me in the face, and I blow at it half-heartedly. My heartbeat rings in my ears, deafening, but through it, I think I hear footfalls.
Then a shadow falls over me, and I straighten, alarmed. The pale sunlight is in my face, blurring the shape of the man standing in front of me. His face is half-covered by a hood. Those broad shoulders look familiar, though, and I relax a fraction.
“Megan?” he whispers, and I recognize that rough, deep voice.
Rafe. I swallow hard, my mouth dry.
“I didn’t know you ran.” He shifts his weight, pushes back his hood, and I just stare, because the light catches on his bright hair, and gilds his handsome features. As he looks down at me, his long lashes cast shadows on his cheekbones.
My voice is hiding somewhere deep inside me, refusing to come out. My lungs aren’t working. I can’t breathe, can’t think. Standing near him is like traveling too close to the sun, engulfed in flames and not caring one bit, too caught up in his beauty.
Which is why I don’t move, don’t even blink when he steps closer, lifts a hand and drags his knuckles over my cheek.
Something else registers, though, as he d
oes it again: his knuckles are bandaged. The gauze grates lightly over my skin, and I put my hand over his, stopping the movement.
His hands weren’t bandaged yesterday night, I’m sure about that. I turn his hand over. Blood spots the bandage. It jolts me out of my trance.
“What happened? How did you hurt yourself?”
He gives a slow blink, as if he were sleepwalking and he’s just waking up. He snatches his hand away, and clenches it into a fist. “I hit something.”
“What did you hit?”
“A wall,” he mutters.
“What? Like, you punched a wall?” My first urge is to laugh, until I realize what this means and horror washes through me. Dear God. “Why?”
He takes a step back. His hoodie is molded to his strong chest. I look up, into his eyes, and fall into molten gold.
“Gotta go,” he rasps and pulls his hood back on, hiding his striking face.
“Wait…” I want to ask him why he’d harm himself, if I can check his hand, change the bandage, but he’s already moving away.
He doesn’t want my help, my touch. But then why does he keep touching me? Why is he teasing me? That’s cruel, and he doesn’t seem like a cruel man.
I watch his tall form as he jogs, the powerful way he moves, and shake my head. Cold, hot, distant, vulnerable, strong, gentle… Beautiful. Intriguing. Tempting. Tantalizing.
So full of contradictions. He scares me.
No, I scare me. My feelings for him are spinning out of control, growing way too fast—growing on nothing.