Chapter 4
dying raccoon aesthetic
Hannah - five years ago
The helmet-clad stranger pulls into a parking spot near the gas station entrance, bike jerking when he comes to a stop. I dismount with the grace-equivalent of a three-legged fawn, no doubt flashing my crotch to everyone pumping gas across the lot.
Air is scarce and I can’t fill my lungs fast enough. Not even the three miles between me and my now ex-fiancé is enough to keep the tears at bay.
I drop the train of my dress—dirt, grime, and grease be damned. Pawing at my face, I try to rein in my emotions as I pace the area around the motorcycle.
I’m humiliated. Livid.
An imposing figure crowds into my space. Tall. Protective. Warm. Unshakeable hands grip my shoulders, drawing my gaze up.
Rowan’s removed his helmet. I noticed his blue eyes before when I ran up to him on the sidewalk, but seeing them in light of his entire face makes him even more striking. A breeze stirs his dark hair to life from where it’s been flattened beneath his helmet.
He glances over his shoulder, then shifts in front of me. “Hannah,” he murmurs through clenched teeth. “I’m sure you’re more than justified in whatever emotional meltdown you need to have, but would you mind picking your dress up off the ground and holding it like you were before?”
My gown is already garbage as far as I’m concerned.
I drag my hands coated in the mascara tears I’ve cleared from my face over the waist of the pristine white fabric, carefully avoiding the jacket he gave me.
If dying raccoon were an aesthetic, it’d be me right now.
“This dress and the man I was wearing it for can eat shit for all I care.”
Hands I shouldn’t find as soothing as they are move over my arms, eyes bouncing between mine for several long beats.
Two men pass in my periphery and Rowan shifts again.
“Okay,” he says, voice tight as he tracks the men all the way inside before looking back at me.
“I’ll be the first in line to help you light this dress on fire, but I’m more concerned with the fact that there’s only about two inches of fabric keeping me and the rest of the world from knowing what color your panties are. ”
I suck in a sharp breath, swallowing hard. Another small gust of wind sweeps in, and I feel it then. My leg is completely exposed. I had to rip the seam if I had any hope of getting on that motorcycle, but the slit must have split even further when I climbed on the bike.
“And that garter is making things hella worse,” he rasps, breath hot in my ear. I’m suddenly aware of how close we are.
I ease back and move to slide the garter down my leg while he scoops up my train.
The garter gets caught on my heel, but he’s there, freeing the elastic over my shoe with one hand, my dress bundled in the other.
I take the mess of fabric from him, positioning it across my waist as we both stand upright again.
“So, Hannah…” He twirls the garter around his finger. “May I?”
We eye the trash can about ten feet away. I chuckle and extend a broad arm in front of me. “Be my guest.”
He slingshots the garter into the garbage on the first try. The thick layer of dark scruff on his face does nothing to conceal the boyish dimples that pop on his cheeks when he smiles at me.
This guy is cute. And handsome. Today I realize for the first time those are two very different things. Rowan is both.
“Good shot.”
He just shrugs. “What now? Is this a twenty-minute breather or a blink twice if you need help kind of escape?”
“Oh, I’m definitely not going back,” I answer with zero hesitation. “But I also don’t really have a plan either.” I sweep the busy lot of the gas station noting the looks of pity coming from every direction. Nope, it’s not just in the movies folks. I am, indeed, a runaway bride scorned.
“You got location tracking on your phone?”
I blink back at him. “Huh?”
“On your phone? If you don’t want to be found you might wanna turn that off.”
“Right,” I rush out, pulling my cell from where I have it tucked in my dress. The bodice left no room for a bra, but the structure of the low-cut neckline is tight enough to hold my phone in place.
I tap around the screen until I successfully deactivate location tracking. Perhaps I should have thought to use that feature months ago when my fiancé was “working late” or getting summoned to “business conferences” at the last minute.
Dozens of notifications litter my text messages. I only respond to one.
Mom
Whatever it is, I’ve got your back. Just let me know you’re okay.
Me
I’m not coming back. I promise I’m safe, though. I’ll be in touch tomorrow. Love you!
With my phone silenced, I look back to Rowan who holds my gaze with a watchful expression.
“Well, I really appreciate your help, but I don’t want to put you out. I can get an Uber and—”
“And go where?” He cocks his head.
No idea. I puff out my cheeks, blowing out a dramatic rush of air a second later.
“I’m guessing he knows where you live, and you said you don’t have any money so you can’t get a hotel room.
” I stare at him, taking in my own words from barely ten minutes ago like it’s brand new information.
It feels like brand new information. “The way I see it, you’ve had a pretty terrible day and I’ve had a terrible week, so…
” He buries a nervous hand in his hair, pulls at the ends.
“If you want a commiserating buddy, I’m available. ”
The chuckle sneaks up from my chest before I can stop it.
This beast of a man stands at least two inches taller than six feet—not too jarring beside me in my three-inch heels, but intimidating to the general public all the same.
Forearms covered in tattoos peek out from where he’s tugged up his sleeves.
Rowan makes a liar out of every man who’s ever purchased a black Henley because they heard it could make them more attractive.
They can’t—not anymore. Not when he’s out here wearing them.
Moral of the story? He could crush the man I left at the altar between his thumbs. And his dimples.
Rowan shifts on his feet, hands tucked into his pockets—fidgeting. I bite back a grin.
Cute, handsome, and endearing.
“I wouldn’t mind the company, I suppose.”
“Okay then.”
I twiddle the bunch of fabric between my fingers.
His questions about my terrible day probably aren’t all that different from the ones I have about his terrible week.
Except, he’s seeing me on my worst day—raccoon eyes, ratty, windblown hair, runaway bride in the flesh in all her glory.
Baselevel getting-to-know-you small talk feels like child’s play with this guy.
My eyes pinball between him and the busy convenience store. My stomach grumbles, a staunch reminder that I haven’t eaten all day. “Would you mind if I grabbed something to eat?”
“You want a hot dog with your mustard?”
I’m too busy using my finger to spread the generous serving of mustard into every crevice between the meat and the bun to look up when I answer.
“Fun fact about me, Rowan. I’m a sucker for cheap, gas station hot dogs.
” I lick my finger clean and lean a hip against the counter.
“If it’s not full of preservatives and drowning in MSG, you’re doing it wrong. ”
With one hand still clutching my dress, I use the other to carefully pick up my hot dog. For a few seconds, I hold it up between us, showcasing its beauty—a masterpiece.
By the third bite, the mustard has begun to mound at the top of the bun, spilling onto my fingers.
Before I can catch it with my tongue, a huge glob of yellow goo falls.
Rowan and I watch as it lands on my gown, right over my boob, thankfully missing his jacket.
Gravity instantly causes the oozing liquid to droop, and a second later it drips onto the bundled fabric in my hand.
I sigh dramatically. “This tracks.”
Rowan’s laugh brings out my own smile. He hands me a napkin, but it’s no use. It’s mustard on white satin—just give me the death certificate to sign and let’s be done with it.
God, he must think I’m such a mess.
“Cute,” he says in a tone that’s equal parts deadpan and fascination.
I pop a shoulder, disassociating from the hits that keep on coming. “I said I didn’t care if it got dirty. I am unaffected, Rowan. Hot mess. But unaffected.”
Before I realize what’s happening, he wipes a dot of mustard from the corner of my mouth. Deep blue eyes hold mine, thumb lingering along the edge of my parted lips for seconds longer than necessary. His hand falls away but he never drops my gaze.
He smirks. “What do you say we get you out of this dress?”