“Talk to me.”
“I can’t talk to you like this!” I cry while placing my hands on his chest to push him back. He doesn’t budge, not even an inch.
“Talk to me. What has you freaked out now?”
“You being on top of me and not getting off,” I pant, and he stills completely.
“I would never hurt you.” His voice is so deep it vibrates across my skin, causing goose bumps to break out in its wake. “Did someone…?” I feel his muscles bunch under my fingers as his eyes scan over my face.
“No.” I stop trying to push him away while I slide my hands up to his shoulders, hoping to reassure him, because he looks about ready to come out of his skin. “Never,” I tell him softly, and his body relaxes as his hand comes up between us, and his fingers slide down my hairline while he watches.
A feeling of warmth fills the center of my chest that is so comforting, so full of goodness I hold my breath, not wanting to lose it because it’s like nothing I’ve ever felt in my life.
“Why are you running from me again?” he asks quietly, his eyes sliding up to meet mine, and I rub my lips together, not sure how to answer that question without sounding like I’m crazy. “I think you get that I like you.” I bite the inside of my cheek. “And you like me?” I don’t respond, and his expression gentles. “All right.” He stands, then pulls me up with him, and I blink at the sudden change of position. “I’m going to take off.”
Wait, what?
“What?” I panic when that warm feeling in the center of my chest begins to disappear.
“What time do you get home from work tomorrow?”
“Why?”
“So I can pick you up for dinner.” He tucks a piece of hair behind my ear as his eyes stay locked on mine. “What time?”
“I normally get home around five.”
“All right, I’ll be here at six.” His hand slides down my arm, then his fingers wrap around mine so he can pull me behind him toward the front door. I go with him, trying to get my brain and mouth to work in unison, but honestly, I feel like I’m suffering from whiplash after everything that has happened since he got here. When he gets to the end of the hall, he drops my hand, bends down to grab the box he placed next to the mat, then opens the door, and turns toward me. “Make sure you lock up.”
“You’re really leaving?” I blurt, and he leans toward me and touches his lips to the edge of my mouth.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.” He turns on his heels and heads across my porch and down the steps. “Shut and lock the door,” he calls while disappearing around the corner.
“What the heck just happened?” I mumble under my breath as I listen to the lid of my garbage can next to my garage slam. Then a moment later, his truck door opens and closes before his engine turns over.
Not wanting to be caught standing in my door when he drives by, I close and lock it and stop in my living room to pick things up, straightening the pillows that had gone askew from him practically tackling me, before I head to my room.
I replay the evening over and over in my head as I go through my nightly routine confused by what happened, but more than anything, I’m frustrated, because that feeling of warmth I felt earlier is right there under the surface but just out of reach. And no matter what I do, I can’t seem to get it back, so I end up tossing and turning long into the night.