16. Abby
16
ABBY
I ’m in the shared laundry room for my building when the stranger approaches me.
At first, I don’t notice him; I’m too busy grabbing my clothes out of the dryer. Dane is coming to pick me up any minute now for our surprise date, and I need to finish this chore first. One of my favorite painting camisoles went missing the last time I did a load, so I’m not willing to leave my things in the dryer where they might get taken.
It’s only when the stranger lets out a low whistle that I realize I’m not alone in the small, hot room.
I jerk upright from where I was bent over the dryer, my heart leaping into my throat. Instinctively, I recognize the unwanted attention of a predator.
A thrill shivers up my spine—a primal warning that all women possess.
I dread the shameful heat that might accompany the spike in my heartbeat, but mercifully, it doesn’t come. Maybe letting go of my illicit connection with GentAnon last night truly will help me overcome my sickness. Maybe I can be worthy of Dane.
I just need to evade this creep so that I can go on my date with him.
“Well, hello, Peaches,” the stranger says, his Southern twang more pronounced that the softer Carolina drawl I’m used to. His pale blue eyes wander down the length of my body, pausing at the curve of my hips.
I have an awful suspicion about why he chose to call me Peaches , even though my butt is now firmly pressed back against the washing machine.
I shake my head slightly and gather my clean laundry to my chest, holding it between us like a shield.
“My name is Abby,” I say coolly. “And you shouldn’t be in here.”
He chuckles. “Don’t be like that,” he admonishes. “We must be neighbors. I’m moving in upstairs. Just checking out the rest of the building in between hauling boxes up to my new place. Too bad I’m not more presentable. I wasn’t expecting to meet a beautiful woman.”
He waves his hand in my general direction, and I notice the dull glint of a wedding ring.
“I don’t think your wife would appreciate you flirting with me,” I reply, speaking calmly and clearly despite my elevated heartrate.
I’ve dealt with skeevy men plenty of times before. But after the attack by the masked man, I’m flooded with adrenaline. Even though I’m not experiencing a disconcertingly erotic reaction to this creep, I still can’t seem to tap into my fight or flight instinct. As always, I’m frozen.
He’s blocking my way to the exit, and I have nowhere to go. Nothing but my words to talk my way past him. If I can manage to unstick my feet from the concrete floor.
“Oh, this.” He frowns at the ring, as though he forgot he’s wearing it. “Damn thing’s stuck. I’m separated. That’s why I’m moving in here. Drove all the way up from Mississippi to get away from that bitch.”
Charming.
I suppress a contemptuous grimace and keep my features schooled to a polite mask. Provoking him when we’re alone in here would be stupid, especially if I’ll have to see him around the building for the foreseeable future.
I note the small beer belly that strains against his too-tight white t-shirt. His finger bulges around the constraint of the too-small wedding ring. I suppose he’s not in the same shape as he was when he first put it on.
“My name’s Ron.” His broad, bright white smile could be considered boyishly charming, and his tousled brown curls add to his good ol’ boy vibe. They peek out at the sides of his oversized baseball cap, and I wonder if he’s hiding a receding hairline. “Pleasure to meet you. I could really use a friend in the neighborhood.”
My new neighbor has an entitled air about him that I recognize all too well.
“I’m sorry to hear about your troubles,” I say, barely managing to soften my tone to something conciliatory. “I hope your move goes smoothly. But I need to get this laundry folded.”
He steps toward me. “I can help with that.”
I recoil from his grubby hands. “That’s okay. I’ve got it.”
He chuckles again and shakes his head. “I’m just being neighborly, Peaches. I’ll help you, and then you can help me. I don’t know the area yet. You can show me the best dive bar in the neighborhood.” He winks at me. “We’re gonna get real close. I can tell.”
My stomach churns, and sweat beads on my brow. The intensity of my fear response is out of proportion with the perceived threat. I should be able to laugh my way out of this and politely disengage, but instead, adrenaline is coursing through my veins.
He takes another step toward me, and his dirty hand fists one of my black work shirts.
The air in my lungs turns to solid ice, and my entire body locks up tight.
I want to tell him to leave me alone, but I can’t find the oxygen to speak. I’m so cold despite the heat of the running dryers in summer.
The door to the laundry room opens, revealing my white knight.
“Dane!” I say his name like a prayer, and his forest green eyes narrow on my creepy new neighbor.
Ron is in between us, my shirt still trapped in his fist. He turns his head to see who’s interrupted us, and his throat bobs when he takes in Dane’s thunderous expression.
Then his shoulders draw back, and his arms flex. He drags my shirt out of my arms and turns to face Dane.
“This your boyfriend, Peaches?” He asks, his twang heavy on the contemptuous question. He eyes Dane up and down, taking in his perfectly tailored, light blue shirt all the way down to his polished leather shoes.
My white knight couldn’t be more different than the creep who’s still stubbornly at the edge of my personal space. Ron is wearing a worn white shirt with sweat stains, and there’s dirt smudged on his brow beneath the brim of his baseball cap. In contrast, Dane oozes refinement and easy grace.
He prowls toward us, every step a warning. Ron stiffens, but he holds his ground. His pathetic posturing would be almost laughable if it weren’t for the fact that ice lingers on my skin. The sour tang of fear curls my tongue. The remembered terror from the night of the masked man’s attack clings to my psyche, and I’m reeling as I try to focus on Dane’s remarkable eyes.
His gaze is fixed on Ron, his forest irises darkening to a dangerous shade of hunter green.
He comes to a stop within punching distance, and I realize that Dane has at least three inches of height and considerable bulk on Ron.
“Her name is Abigail, not Peaches.” Dane’s voice is light and smooth, so at odds with his threatening stance. “And yes, I’m her boyfriend. So, if you ever think about harassing her again, you’ll have to deal with me.”
Shock renders me mute at his words. The genteel cadence of his voice dropped to something rougher on the last: a gravelly declaration of ownership and a promise of retribution.
Dane tips his chin at my shirt. Ron’s knuckles have gone white against the soft black fabric.
“That doesn’t belong to you.”
For a moment, I think that he’ll insist on giving it back to me.
Instead, he plucks my shirt from Ron’s loosened grip and claims it for himself.
Ron’s jaw works. “Tough talk for a fancy man. I was just being neighborly and helping with her laundry.”
Dane’s eyes remain fixed on Ron like he’s a bug he’d like to grind under the heel of his designer shoe, but he addresses me.
“Do you want his help, Abigail?”
“No,” I manage to breathe.
With every passing second, the ice is melting from my bones, leaving me wrung out and shaky. Fear is giving way to shock at the unexpected events unfolding in the cramped space of the stifling laundry room. Dane radiates menace, and the fine hairs on the back of my neck prickle. But at the same time, relief rushes through me at his protective presence.
“You heard her,” Dane prompts darkly. “She doesn’t want you. Unless you have a good reason to be in here, I suggest you leave now.”
Ron throws up his hands and shakes his head, as though Dane is making a big deal out of nothing. “Fine, buddy. I have boxes to move.” He shoots a glower in my direction. “Ungrateful bitch.”
Dane moves lighting fast, and suddenly, his chest is almost pressed against Ron’s. His entire body swells with barely leashed aggression, but his face is completely devoid of emotion. The cold, clinically calculated way he’s studying Ron is more terrifying than his warning scowl.
“Use that language with her again, and you’ll end up with a broken jaw.”
Ron seems to finally understand the gravity of the danger he’s in, and he takes a hasty step away, edging toward the open door behind Dane.
“Fine,” he says again, but his voice wavers this time. “She’s your girl. I get it. Fucking psycho.” He mutters the last as he ducks out the door to evade my fierce protector.
Dane’s cold gaze glitters. He keeps his frigid focus fixed on Ron until the threat is gone. Ron’s quickly retreating footsteps slap against the concrete floor of the entry hall as he makes a swift exit onto the street.
“How did you know I was in here?” My lips feel oddly numb, but my voice barely wavers on the question.
The dangerous glimmer melts from Dane’s eyes when he turns his stunning gaze on me. “I was knocking on your front door when I heard your voice,” he explains. “You sounded scared.”
“Did I?” I’d thought I was speaking in a calm, disarming tone.
I guess I was even more shaken up than I realized. My body is still reeling from the spike of adrenaline, and my knees are strangely weak.
“I’m sorry.” I offer a reflexive apology, and embarrassment flushes my cheeks. “I should’ve been able to handle him myself.”
If I weren’t still jumpy from the masked man’s attack, I might’ve been capable of walking away from Ron on my own.
But I can’t explain myself to Dane. He can never know what happened to me, my shameful reaction to being violated.
My white knight is touching me again, his careful fingers making light contact with my wrist to test my pulse. It’s still racing from the burst of irrational fear.
“You shouldn’t have to handle him by yourself,” he rumbles, his jaw flexing with a shadow of his righteous anger. “I’ll take care of you, Abigail. He won’t bother you again.”
I try to shrug. “It wasn’t that serious. I would’ve been okay.”
A shadow deepens in his cheek as his jaw ticks more with more force. “I’m not asking,” he says firmly. “I want to keep you safe. Trust me.”
His long fingers close around mine before I can respond. “You’re shaking,” he remarks. “Let’s go somewhere quiet. You need to sit down and hydrate.”
I attempt a dismissive laugh to alleviate his concern. “I’m just being silly. It really was nothing.” I square my shoulders with considerable effort and summon up my sunny smile. “I thought we were going out on a date?”
He fixes me with a disapproving frown, and my chest hollows out.
“Come on,” he prompts, wrapping his strong arm around my shoulders. “Let’s go into your place.”
“You really don’t have to take care of me.” I try to protest as he steers me out of the laundry room. The humid summer air is oddly cold against my sweat-slicked skin after the heat of the running dryers. “I’m fine.”
“I know I don’t have to, but I’m going to,” he counters. “And don’t lie to me, Abigail. It’s okay to be disturbed by what happened in there. That bastard shouldn’t have cornered you. You were a woman alone in a small space with a much bigger man. You don’t have to be proud around me and conceal your emotions.” That shadow at his jaw flutters again. “Did he touch you?”
“No.” I soften on a sigh and lean into Dane, allowing myself the moment of weakness.
I’m so tired of holding myself together, and he’s refusing to allow me to pretend I’m fine. I don’t want to lie to Dane, even if I can’t tell him about the masked man’s attack. I can at least be honest with my emotions. I can be vulnerable with him.
He opens my unlocked front door, and his frown deepens. But he ushers me inside without admonishment.
“Ron didn’t touch me,” I say. “He just tried to help me fold my laundry. I told him I didn’t want his help, but he grabbed my shirt anyway. Thank you for getting it back from him.”
My arms are still locked around the rest of my clean clothes, holding them like a shield.
But I don’t need to shield myself from Dane.
When he steers me to the couch, I unlock my muscles and drop the laundry onto it. Then my knees finally fold, and I sink down onto the cushions beside my clothes.
His big hand squeezes my shoulder, and my stomach flips. My fear responses are still on high alert, and I internally curse the warning flutter at the center of my chest.
I’m alone in my private space with Dane, but he’s not a threat. I’ve conditioned my body to have this thrilling response to his touch because of my fucked-up fantasies about him.
I take a breath and try to calm my racing heart.
“I’ll get you some water,” he says, and again, it’s not a question.
My place isn’t exactly difficult to navigate, so he has no trouble walking three paces to enter the cramped kitchen space. He manages to find my water glasses on the first try—there aren’t many cabinets to choose from—and makes quick work of filling one.
He returns to the couch and presses the cool glass into my colder hand before settling down beside me. The seat is so small that his hip brushes mine. I could move the laundry and scoot away from him, but I don’t want to put any distance between us.
His body heat pulses over me, chasing away the last of the chill that lingers in my flesh. I melt, my tense muscles easing as calm finally settles over me like a soft blanket on my shoulders.
Allowing Dane to take care of me feels almost euphoric after years of stubbornly making my own way. A sense of lightness makes my bones feel almost hollow, as though I could soar like a bird. I lean into my fierce protector, tentatively pressing my shoulder against his corded arm. His hand comes up to cup the side of my head, and he gently urges me to tuck myself close to him. My breaths slow to match the steady rise and fall of his chest, and his deft fingers trail through my hair in a soothing motion.
A sense of intimacy blossoms between us, and for a few blissful moments, my mind is utterly quiet. I can simply languor in this safe space with Dane, and I don’t have to feel guilty or weak for accepting his support.
He won’t allow me to refuse it, so I’m able to give myself permission to surrender, sinking into his strength.
“Is that the first time he’s harassed you?” he rumbles after I’ve taken a few sips of water.
“Who, Ron?” I ask on a sigh. I’m so comfortable and calm that an echo of my fear doesn’t so much as tingle up my spine. “That’s the first time I’ve met him. He said he’s moving into one of the apartments upstairs.”
He tucks a stray lock of hair behind my ear, and little sparks ping along my scalp in response to his tender touch.
“But it’s not the first time a man has harassed you.” He says it like a condemnation of all men, his voice dropping to a deep, disapproving register.
Who hurt you? I recall his intense question from our first date.
I’m not ready to open up to him about my past trauma; I’m still trying to get a handle on my own physical responses, and I don’t want to scare him away with my baggage.
“No,” I agree softly. “It’s not the first time. I’m a woman.” That’s explanation enough, and he blows out a sigh so rough that it’s almost a growl.
“But I can handle myself,” I assure him, trying to allay his mounting anger on my behalf. I want to stay in this quiet, safe space with him for a while longer without emotional upheaval.
“You don’t have to handle it alone,” he says with the weight of an oath. “Not when I’m around.”
My heart tugs with longing, but I know it’s foolish to become too attached to him so quickly. I’ve never been good at guarding my emotions.
“You didn’t have to tell Ron that you’re my boyfriend,” I murmur. “But thank you for coming to help me.”
Two fingers curl beneath my chin, and he guides my face to his so that I’m caught in his intense green stare.
“You have a rather bad habit of telling me what I don’t have to do,” he remarks, and his thumb traces the line of my lower lip. He speaks over my soft gasp of arousal at the tender touch. “I make my own choices, Abigail. You don’t need to protect me from them.”
“Sorry,” I breathe. “I don’t want to be controlling.”
I will never be like my mother. She controls everyone around her with cutting comments that she wields with the precision of a scalpel.
Dane releases a low chuckle, and his chest rumbles against my cheek. The sound vibrates into me and warms my flesh like a lover’s caress.
“You can’t control me, Abigail. No one does.” His voice drops deeper on the last, a private declaration that he’s spoken aloud.
An ocean separates us, and I prefer it that way.
I reach for him reflexively, drawn to connect with him on a deeper level as I recall what he said about his estrangement from his family. It’s something we have in common, and I crave to know more about my dashing hero.
Our fingers entwine, and he gives me a gentle squeeze.
“I like the way we fit together,” he remarks. “I particularly like the way you captured it in your painting.”
My cheeks heat, and I resist the urge to squirm in his hold. I realize that my painting of our date scene is still propped on my easel, and an intense sense of vulnerability knots my stomach.
“I didn’t think you’d see that,” I say quietly.
His eyes are green pools, drawing me in deep. “It’s stunning.”
He traces the line of my cheekbone, and my breath catches.
“You said I don’t have to tell people that I’m your boyfriend,” he says. “Do you want me to be?”
“We hardly know each other,” I try to protest, but the longing in my heart roughens the words.
His fingers slide into my hair in a gentle grip. “I don’t want to see anyone else. I only want you, Abigail.”