Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Lennon
Not long after, my kidnapper slows, turning onto a quiet street. Through the rain-streaked windshield, a big, blue house comes into view, and I suck in a breath.
It’s beautiful.
Framed by dark, dripping trees, the house stands three stories tall, and every window glows with warm light.
Every single window.
I count them without meaning to, ground floor, second floor, all of them lit, even the ones that face the trees. The light spills out into the wet dark, as if the house is trying to push back the darkness.
“Watch out for the light.”
Stop that shit, Lenny. He probably just doesn’t live alone. People tend to have the lights on when someone is home.
Right. Of course, a good-looking, obviously well-off guy like him wouldn’t be single. He probably wouldn’t have even looked twice at a girl like me if he hadn’t literally hit me with his car.
Wow, are you really upset that the man who almost killed you is not single, Lenny?
He pulls into the driveway, and a garage door rolls up ahead of us, swallowing the car out of the rain. The sudden quiet is almost startling, no more drumming on the roof or streaked glass between the world and me, just fluorescent light.
The garage door closes behind us with a low mechanical hum, sealing out the storm. Then he turns off the engine and lets out a long, shaky breath before his large frame droops.
“Are you all right?” I ask.
He shuts his eyes and lets out a soft, wounded sound, as if the question pains him.
“I mean,” I add quietly. “You almost killed someone. That would shake most people up. At least people who aren’t trying to kill someone.”
The corner of his mouth pulls into that downward smile again before he chuckles under his breath. It’s an intoxicating sound, deep and warm, and it shakes loose flutters in my chest.
“Maybe you’re the one in shock?” I ask, ignoring the feeling as best I can. “Do you know what shock looks like if you’re the one experiencing it?”
He turns in his seat to look at me, and there it is again—that strange, steady focus on my eyes. “I like your sense of humor.”
What?
“I wasn’t—” Before I can finish, he leans into my space, his face close enough that I feel his warmth. His eyes bounce between mine intently before dropping to my lips.
Is he going to kiss me?
My pulse starts to hammer in my ear when there’s a soft click, and my seat belt retracts.
Oh.
Of course, he doesn’t want to kiss you, you idiot.
When I finally unfreeze, he’s already out of the car, the door closing softly behind him. I lean back against the seat and take a slow breath, only to startle when my door opens a second later.
Without a word, he offers his hand to me, wet spots from the rain still clinging to his sleeve. I don’t hesitate to take it, trusting him more than I do my own feet at the moment. Then, with his help, I make it to said feet, probably looking steadier than I actually feel.
He nods, appearing satisfied, and releases my hand to grab my things from the back of the car.
“I can carry that,” I protest, reaching for the blanket.
“I’ve got it,” he says easily. There’s no edge to it, no irritation. “We’ll wash these while I clean your scrapes.”
Letting my hand drop back to my side, I follow him through the door, which opens to a large living room. It’s warm and bright, all white walls and pale furniture softened by a whole ecosystem of plants—big leafy ones on the floor and smaller ones tucked onto shelves and windowsills.
I hesitate, suddenly aware of my damp clothes and the fact that I’m dripping onto his pristine floor. He’s already kicked off his shoes, so I tug off my boots and set them carefully beside his. He smiles softly at that, but then his brow creases when I don’t immediately step inside.
“Should I… uh… say hello to your wife first?” I ask, unsure of what to do.
“My wife?” The confusion on his face makes my stomach drop.
“Or… girlfriend?” I rush on. “Partner? Boyfriend?”
He makes a short, startled sound, then covers it with his fist as it turns into a cough. “Boyfriend?” he repeats, incredulous, then laughs once under his breath. “I really should get rid of this wardrobe.”
“I mean…” I keep going because apparently, I’ve decided to die of embarrassment today. “The house is big, and all the lights were on, and maybe you live with your parents? You look late thirties, but I lived with my mom the last six months, so who am I to judge, and I—”
“I live alone. I’m forty. And the lights are on because I’m scared of the dark.”
“Oh.”
That’s unexpectedly honest and weirdly endearing. My heart rate settles a notch. A serial killer who runs people over and finishes the job at home probably wouldn’t be scared of the dark.
Probably.
“I hate bananas,” I blurt.
He lifts a brow.
“I mean, I don’t have the classic fears,” I ramble on.
“Darkness or spiders…” He shudders faintly, which I clock with interest, “… heights, all that. But bananas? Absolutely not. The smell makes me gag, the texture is disgusting, and not even the fact that they’re yellow, which is my favorite color, saves them. ”
He tilts his head and gives me a full downward smile, like he’s enjoying this way too much, and my cheeks warm.
“Anyway. It’s not a fear but kind of embarrassing for a chef to have a food aversion that bad, especially to the universal fruit that is used in so many desserts and cakes, and I thought maybe if I shared something I’m struggling with, it would… balance things?”
“You’re a chef?” he asks, visibly perking up, and I frown, wondering how that could have caught his interest.
“Yes… I am.”
Hopefully, that’s the only fun fact that sticks with him after the absolute word vomit I just unleashed.
“A fucking chef.” He huffs a quiet laugh, then glances down at the pile of things in his arms. “Of course.”
Of course, the chubby girl is a chef?
Heat crawls up my neck, but I don’t get the chance to decide whether I’m hurt or simply tired of being predictable.
He’s already walking again, so I follow him down a short hallway into what looks like a laundry room. He sets my things down on top of one of the machines, then checks the tags on the blanket and pillows with careful attention.
There are two washers and two dryers, all industrial-looking. The house itself could justify it, sure, but one guy living alone absolutely does not need a small commercial setup.
Maybe he separates darks, lights, and… evidence.
“These can go together,” he says more to himself than me.
“You don’t have to wash my stuff,” I protest weakly.
“It’s the least I can do. I’m the reason they’re dirty, and it won’t take long.” He’s already loading the machine. “And as I said, it can run while we take care of your scrapes.” He holds up the detergent. “Is this okay? Any sensitivities?”
“No,” I say softly. “That’s the same one I use.”
He nods once, satisfied, pours it in, but then stops his finger midway to start the cycle. He turns and looks me up and down, then walks past me and out of the laundry room with a, “Be right back.”
I trail after him into the living room, but he’s already disappearing up the stairs, so I stop and let myself look around again.
There’s a monstera with leaves the size of serving trays, something tall and spindly I don’t recognize, and a few hanging plants spilling green down the walls as if they’re trying to escape their pots.
A massive flat-screen television sits opposite a low couch, with a record player and neat stacks of vinyl beside it.
The scent from the car lingers in here, too, roasted espresso.
The atmosphere is almost clinical.
So nobody can find DNA traces of his victims?
A minute later, he comes back down the stairs, and my brain promptly forgets how to function.
He’s changed into gray sweatpants and a white T-shirt, the fabric stretched perfectly over his pecks, sleeves hugging his arms enough to make it obvious that he’s fit.
Lean, yes, but not slight. Apparently, he has been hiding some muscles under that professor’s sweater.
I only now realize that he’s tall too, not Nevan’s height, but still tall.
“Here.” He holds out a stack of clothes toward me. “For you.”
I don’t even spare them a glance. “No, thank you.”
“You’re wet and dirty,” he reasons. “Please change.”
I glance down at my damp sleeves and muddy hems, then at the very white furniture surrounding us. Right. Murderer or not, he definitely does not want street grime and rainwater on any of this.
Taking the clothes gingerly, I exhale before I give him the truth. “I don’t know if these will fit.”
“They might be a little long,” he shrugs. “We can roll them up.”
I sigh. That was not what I meant, but I nod and let him steer me toward the guest bathroom, which is beside the laundry room.
It’s spotless and weirdly roomy. You could spin around with your arms out and not hit anything. Thick chrome bars line the walls by the toilet and shower, the sort you see in hospitals or at your grandparents’ place.
They would have been so handy when I was caring for Mom.
I shut the door behind me and peel off my clothes until I’m standing there in just black lace underwear, only to discover that even my bra is damp from the muddy rainwater. I consider keeping it on anyway, but then I look at the white T-shirt he gave me.
Dammit.
My panties are miraculously still dry—story of my life—so I try the sweatpants first. I already know they won’t fit over my hips, but I try anyway, and when they don’t, the urge to cry rises, but I swallow it down and reach for the shirt and hoodie instead.
They stretch awkwardly over my boobs, but I manage to yank them both on, hoping he won’t be mad that I’ve probably permanently altered his clothes.
The hoodie hangs almost to my knees, but still, I’m so not going to flash my cellulite at the guy. I pick up my stockings, which should dry quickly, but then I notice they’re torn. The fall onto the pavement left a large run in them, which makes me curious to inspect the damage left on my body.