Chapter 14 #2
Tugging the hoodie’s hem up, I catch sight of the bruise on the outside of my thigh, still throbbing with my heartbeat. It’s scraped, raw, and angry red, and it has me sucking in a sharp breath through my teeth.
Ouch.
Again, I feel like crying, but this time I don’t know if it’s from hurting or from the knowledge that he’s going to see me like this.
After folding my wet bra into my skirt and sweater, I finally look at myself in the mirror for the first time.
Jesus.
I look wild.
My lemon clip is barely hanging on, my damp hair is frizzed and sticking to my face, and my makeup is smudged. The scrape on my temple is red and ugly, standing out way too much against my pale skin.
Taking a deep breath, I clean off the mascara and smooth my hair with my fingers, wishing desperately for the lipstick in my purse—which is, of course, in the laundry room.
After using the toilet and washing my hands the best I can with the wound, I gather my wet clothes and stare at the white door before I finally gather the courage to step back out.
The owner of said door is leaning against the wall across the hall, ankles crossed, eyes down on his phone. He hasn’t noticed me yet, and for a second, I stand there in the doorway, clutching my wet clothes, taking the opportunity to take a deep breath.
His gaze lifts at the sound, and whatever he was about to say dies when his eyes drop to my bare legs. They stay there for exactly one beat too long before he catches himself, jaw tightening slightly as he straightens off the wall and steps up to me.
Heat floods my face. “I’m sorry if this looks indecent. I don’t fit into your sweatpants, and my stockings are trash.”
His gaze flicks back to mine as if he’s realized he’s been caught staring. Then he exhales a quiet laugh, a little off guard. “I’m not complaining.”
My pulse stutters.
That almost sounded flirty.
He reaches for the clothes in my arms, and I instinctively pull them back. “What are you doing?”
“Washing those.”
“No, thank you.”
“Stubborn?”
“A little.”
“Good…” He pauses, then adds, “I’ll have them washed and dry before you leave. Please?”
This can’t get any worse, can it?
I hand them over, and he thanks me before returning to the laundry room.
The white carpet beneath my bare feet feels expensive, and I’m hyperaware of each step I take, not wanting to dirty anything.
I stay in the doorway, crossing my arms over my chest as I wait for him, but when I hear a choked sound coming from inside, I rush over, already opening my mouth.
“You don’t have to do this. I can change back into my clothes. It’s—”
I stop short when I find him standing over the second washing machine, holding my bra, staring at it.
Of course.
Just… of course.
It’s big. I have big boobs. Gravity has opinions about the strain I put on it.
That’s exactly why I buy proper lingerie from shops where they actually measure you, so nothing digs or slips.
And yeah, I like lace and straps that make me feel feminine and put together, even if the rest of me lives in cute sweaters and skirts.
Breathe, Lenny. At least it’s not your granny panties.
His thumb slides over a lacy flower detail, and I lunge forward, snatching it out of his hand.
He startles, eyes widening in horror. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t…” He runs a hand through his hair. “I wanted to check how it should be washed.”
Oh.
Of course.
“It’s a delicate cycle, but you don’t need to wash my underwear. God, everything about this is so embarrassing.”
At this point, I kind of hope he’ll kill me already, but instead, he holds out his hand again, smiling tentatively. “May I? I have a good delicate setting.”
Maybe exhaustion at this entire situation is what makes me give this stranger my bra again. But good manners are why I mumble, “Thank you.”
He carefully puts it into the machine next to the other one, like my laundry is precious. Which, to me, it is, but when the silence presses on, I hear myself say, “I like lingerie. It’s like… something nice. Just for me.”
He glances at me, then back at the machine. “It’s definitely nice,” he says, then closes the washer.
Our gazes meet, and I huff out a quiet, awkward laugh.
“Well, that was me accidentally announcing that men haven’t seen my underwear lately.
I had a boyfriend until recently. We were together for a year and a half, but he hadn’t really seen me naked for…
most of it.” I swallow. “And it’s not like he liked the lingerie.
If we had sex, it was always in the dark. ”
What the hell is wrong with me? Shut up, Lenny.
Cold dread creeps up my spine as I realize what I just told a man I barely know. What I’ve been telling him.
Why do I keep doing this?
Why does he make my rambling jump straight past awkward and land on painfully honest?
Maybe I’ll die from embarrassment before he gets a chance to do the job.
“I’ve been celibate for almost five years.”
My head snaps up, sure I’ve misheard him. But the calm way he said it replays clearly in my mind. He has a talent for that, I’m realizing, letting me unravel just enough before stopping it dead.
“I struggle with sleep,” he continues when I don’t respond, stuffing his hands in his pockets.
“I suffer from night terrors and sleep paralysis. Rules and routines help me think, so I made a pact with myself to remain celibate for five years. In trauma therapy, especially somatic frameworks, there’s this idea that deeply entrenched patterns often need multiple years of consistent stability before you reintroduce high-risk stimuli. ”
His gaze travels from my bare feet up to my eyes. “I have two months left.”
I swallow so hard it almost echoes in the quiet laundry room.
“Oh.”
Damn. He’s not only hot but also smart. Probably too smart for me because my brain has fully blue-screened.
“Too much?” He exhales, then gives me that small, downward smile again. “I wanted to share something to balance things.”
I huff a surprised laugh. “You’re going to have to balance a lot then. You may have noticed, but I ramble when I’m nervous.”
His mouth curves further. “I’m making you nervous?”
I hesitate, then nod. “In the spirit of honesty… yes.”
“I like that we can be this unfiltered with each other. I’m not very good at hiding what I’m thinking.” His words turn into a murmur when he adds, “And it seems you aren’t either.”
He reaches up to rub the back of his neck, and the motion lifts the hem of his shirt just enough to give me an unfortunate glimpse of toned abs and a dark happy trail disappearing beneath the waistband of his sweats.
Shit.
I drop my gaze to my feet on the white tiles. The yellow polish on my toenails stands out against everything else in this house that is so bright. So clean.
Maybe I did die when he ran me over.
Maybe this is Heaven, and my ghost nails are citrusy after all.
“Just so you know.” My probably-not-a-murderer takes my chin gingerly between his thumb and forefinger and tilts my gaze back up to him. “You’re making me nervous, too, darling.”
My stomach flips violently, and I take a step back, shoving my hand between us in an offer of formality like an absolute idiot. “My name is Lennon,” I blurt.
“Nice to meet you, Lennon.” He draws out my name, as if savoring it, then takes my offered hand with the same high level of care that I’ve learned to expect from him. “I’m Paul.”
When his palm slides against mine, I try to hold back a hiss at the sting but don’t quite manage it.
“Fuck, sorry.” He lets go immediately, concern flashing across his face. He quickly turns back to the washers and starts them before nudging me out of the room with a light touch at the small of my back. “Come on. Let’s get those road rashes checked out.”
As he guides me forward, my gaze drops to my hand.
Five perfectly normal fingers.
Real.