Chapter 10 Surprise #2
Why is there a woman knocking on our door?
This is the penthouse. You can only reach it with either a key—via stairs—or with a code—in the elevator.
This isn’t the case of someone wandering around the Fortress, getting lost or curious, and making their way to the top floor. Oh,no. They’re here on purpose.
Do I answer? Do I pretend no one’s home? Dallas made it clear: until I remember enough that I know who I can and can not trust, it’s better if I stay hidden in his penthouse, kept protected under his wing.
And then I hear it—“Dallas? It’s me”—and there isn’t anything in this world that could stop me from walking over to the door and opening it.
Holy shit.
She’s beautiful.
Do I know her? No idea. I take her in anyway, not caring one bit that I’m gawking.
She’s taller than I am by a few inches, with notable curves that are shown off by a dress that probably costs more than all those clothes Dallas paid Adrian’s wife to pick up for me while I was in the hospital.
Her perfectly brown hair—that, on second glance, may or may not be a very good dye job—is styled to show off her slender neck, draped in a pair of classy pulls.
I’m wearing a sweater I yanked out of the closet, a pair of leggings that have a stain from where I wiped my hands on them after I ate lunch, and I don’t even remember if I brushed my hair today.
Do I know her? I still don’t know, but the look of stunned surprise on her face tells me that, not only does she not know me, but she sure as hell didn’t think I would answer the door.
“Oh,” she says, hand fluttering up to settle against the cleavage she definitely has on display. “I— I wasn’t expecting…”
Me? No shit.
“Hi. I’m Lucy,” I say automatically.
Good manners win out. She gives me a gracious smile. “Heather Moore.”
Nope. That name doesn’t mean anything to me, but the way she looks over my head, trying to peer inside the penthouse… yeah. I don’t like that.
“Can I help you?”
I hear the edge to my voice and, as Heather’s lips form a small pout, I add a new detail to the running list of ‘who is Lucy Wright’: she can be catty when she feels threatened.
“Um, yes. Thank you. I was hoping to speak with Dallas,” she continues, smoothing her hands down the front of her dress. “Is he home?”
“No. He isn’t.”
As though she thinks I’m lying, she continues to try to look around me, searching for Dallas. There’s something nervous about her, I notice. Not malicious, really, but more… determined.
“I won’t take up much of his time,” she tells me. “There have been rumors and I just wanted to clarify—”
Rumors?
“Rumors?” I echo.
Her smile falters as something clicks. “Oh. I’m sure I shouldn’t say.” A light laugh that I highly doubt she means. “A proper Offering doesn’t gossip.”
Offering? What?
I don’t understand…
I shake my head. “Sorry. He’s still at work. You can probably call him down at the garage, if it’s that important."
She frowns. “The garage? But I was told he was—”
That’s it. “I can tell him you stopped by. Let him know you wanted to talk to him. Heather, right? I’m sure he’ll know who you are.”
The way her lips part, I finally notice that, beneath her expertly applied make-up, she’s much younger than I am. Younger, and taken aback by how rude I’m being.”
But she forges past it, letting out another of those laughs. “I should hope so. After all, we’re going to be married in two weeks.”
I slam the door in her face.
Huh. Look at that. I’ve learned something else about myself.
I’m a fucking coward.
It takes five minutes before Heather realizes that I’m not opening the door again. In case she tries to get information from me, I scurry out of the front room, basically hiding in the next one off the hall: the living room. I back up as far as I can, as though I can outrun her words.
Married in two weeks…
What? How? That doesn’t make sense? Sure, I had this feeling like he was hiding something, but a whole fiancé? How?
I’m trembling, my bare feet tripping over the floor. I turn when my heel skids, gasping when I come face-to-face with one of the tall windows.
When I was in here earlier, it was early evening, another beautiful early September day.
I remember there were some clouds, but in the time since I last looked outside, the skies turned a deep purply-grey, the portent of a thunderstorm brewing.
A scattering of droplets cover the glass.
It’s drizzling, but nowhere near hard enough to hide the city below or conceal just how high up I am.
Learning that my biggest fear had come true—that Dallas has moved on while we were separated, that he found someone new, and he was only taking care of me out of a sense of duty not love—has my head spinning, my heart thumping wildly.
I can barely catch my breath. I get dizzy and scared when it comes to heights on a good day.
When it feels like my world as I know… that I’ve spent the last few weeks getting used to… is crashing down around me, the horrifying sense of vertigo that slams into me as I look out the window nearly has me crumpling to the floor.
That won’t help, I think. I’ll still be so many stories over the ground and, suddenly, I can’t bear it.
I have this urge to escape, to find myself on solid ground, and even if I know it’s because I’m using my justified fear of heights to give me a reason to purposely look past how another woman came here and said she was engaged to my husband, that’s fine.
I need air.
I need something.
I need to get the hell out of the penthouse.
Phone? Where’s my phone? Ah. I snatch it from the coffee table, shove it in the pockets of my leggings.
When I see my bare feet, I grab the only pair of sneakers I own and jam my feet into them.
After that, I barrel out the front door.
Too late, I wonder if Heather is waiting outside the penthouse for Dallas, but the outer hallway is empty.
Next thing I know, I’m in the lobby, heading for the exit.
The doors to the front of the Fortress slide open, and the first drop of rain hits my cheek as I step outside. Then another. Then ten more all around me, each one cold and insistent, dotting the pavement like a warning.
By the time I reach the edge of the building, it’s pouring.
The sky has opened up completely, rain slamming down hard enough to sting.
I tug my sweater around me, wishing I’d brought a coat.
Wishing I had a coat that wasn’t just the hooded sweatshirt some other woman picked out for me.
The rain falls at an angle, the chilly water running into my eyes, into my mouth, down the collar of my sweater.
It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t stop me.
I keep running, but I’m not able to run fast enough to escape my own traitorous thoughts…
What if he’s lying?
What if he isn’t?
What if she’s being honest—that they are engaged—and he’s only allowed me back into his life because he feels guilty that I got hurt while we were separated?
He tried to move on, but he couldn’t because of me, and now I’m ruining his life again, keeping from a woman who can love him the way he deserves to be loved?
What if… what if my body seems to remember him because it’s desperate for affection and not because this gorgeous stranger… my supposed husband… is telling the truth of who we are to each other? Maybe we were married once, but if we were apart for so long… there had to be a reason.
Was she the reason? Or was it me?
I don’t know. Add it to the ever-growing fucking pile, but I don’t know the answer to any of those questions, and instead of sticking around the Fortress where I at least know where I am, I keep on running until my foot slides, I nearly fall to the asphalt, the rain becoming too much for me to handle that I have to find some sort of shelter.
Some protection.
As I duck down the next alley, searching for somewhere to hide—from the rain, from Dallas—I see a stretch of graffiti-covered brick.
A hint of artistic ugliness in the perfection that seems to be Harmony Heights, the graffiti calls me toward it.
My thoughts skid, slippery as the pavement beneath my feet.
I stumble, throwing my back against the brick, flattening myself beneath the slim awning over my head as though that might be enough to protect me.
And maybe it does because, suddenly, the rain changes.
Not the sound. The raindrops are still loud and relentless in their pursuit, but they’re not hitting me the same way. Less on my face. Less on my shoulders. Swiping my eyes with my sleeve, I look up to see what’s saving me.
It’s him.
Wearing a drenched t-shirt and a flat expression, Dallas is standing right in front of me.
What the—
I didn’t hear him approach. I swear, I didn’t hear anything except for the rain and the beat of my own heart.
He’s close—too, too close—and, suddenly, the wall at my back feels intentional, like I put myself here without realizing it.
I place my hands on his chest, palms to his pecs, not sure if I’m warding him off…
or if I’m eager to pull him even closer.
Dallas’s big body blocks the downpour completely. Water sheets down his back, his t-shirt already soaked through, the black color shimmering like ink and molded around his sculpted torso. His hair is plastered to his forehead, rain running down his jaw, but he doesn’t seem to notice it at all.
I stare at him, stunned by how much of the storm he’s taking on himself—and just how quickly he was able to follow me.
Follow me and find me.
“Lucy,” he says, his voice so guttural, the rain nearly drowns him out.
Only nearly, though, because I heard him. I heard what he said. Just my name and nothing else, and that’s all he has to say to have me shivering beneath him as he throws his hand up over my head, caging me in between the hard brick at my back and his even harder chest.
Dallas dips his head. “Where do you think you’re running off to, sweet Lucy?”