Murder_ A Sinful Secrets Romance - Ella James Page 0,31

sure not to touch my face. He could have HIV for all I know.

But he doesn’t.

He can’t.

I sigh.

He’s nice. I like him. Which is not okay for many reasons. Chief among them: he probably hates me. All I’ve done is fuck up in his presence, and on top of that, I’m weird looking. A guy who looks like him would never feel attracted to a woman with a smile like mine.

I ring his bell the final time, and the sort of cold that precedes passing out or hyperventilating winds its way through my body.

Why does he affect me this way? Helga theorizes it’s because he’s the first guy I’ve had close contact with since the accident. I don’t want to think that’s it—because that’s so pathetic. It’s been almost four years, after all. And anyway, I’ve had close contact with other guys. Say, the check-out guy at my neighborhood grocery store. He’s college-aged and cute. Or the priest at my church. I feel at ease around them, don’t I?

I let my breath out, long and slow, and try to put a wall between me and my disappointment.

You wanted to see him. You’ve got a crush.

After I deliver my confectionery apology for being so insensitive the other day, I really need to stay away from him. I should treat this whole thing as a signal to myself that it’s time to dip a toe back in the dating waters. Not with Barrett, Gorgeous Army Ranger. But with someone.

Someone old or desperate. Someone I could feel at ease with. Someone around whom, at the very least, I’m not flailing around like Facial Paralysis Muppet.

I prop the Tupperware against a hip and stare at his doorbell.

The last two nights, I dreamed of white, of lying on the ground immobilized. Both times I saw him walking over me: a giant, while I was ant-sized.

I turn away, back toward the steps, rolling my eyes at myself. Self-loathing is a buoyant force inside me, making me feel darkly energetic—like I just might run back through the woods and slam my front door behind myself.

Just about the time I turn around to do that, I hear a whiny creak, and then a soft whoosh.

“Gwenna?”

I turn slowly toward the door to find him standing in it.

His wavy-curly hair is all over the place—as if he’s been tugging on it. His shadow is more beard-y, and his chiseled face looks starker underneath this wild crown of dark hair. Where two days ago, his eyes showed just a hint of tiredness, which I thought was pain from taking a kick to the head, now there are obvious circles under his eyes. He blinks, bringing his solemn face to life, but he still looks slightly dazed. Like he just popped a Xanax—or woke up.

“Oh hell, did I wake you up?” I shake my head again as goldfish do synchronized backflips in my stomach. I can feel my cheeks burn as my gaze sweeps over his slouchy jeans and snug-ish white undershirt.

He brings a hand up and pushes at the curls over his left eye. His face is still that quiet neutral.

Silence stretches out between us. I swallow. He blinks, his eyes a little wider.

“No,” he says belatedly, as if he’s only just now processing. He shakes his head. His lips press together. God, his eyes are serious. Probably because he’s wondering what it will take to get rid of me. With one hand on the doorframe, he leans out slightly. “Do you need something?"

“Um, well…I just wanted to swing by and give you—” I hold out the Tupperware box. “Chocolate cake. It’s the traditional Southern new neighbor offering. Post-assault, of course.”

After a brief hint of confusion in his brows, his mouth lifts slightly on one side. I pass the cake container to him.

He blinks a few times down at it, then looks up at me. His face is serious and stark, as are his words when he says, “Thank you, Gwenna.”

I nod. Now go. My feet don’t move. “How are you doing? I’ve been thinking of you. In a totally non-stalker way.” Stalker.

His eyes widen. Is that supposed to be an answer? My hand lifts of its own accord. “Can I see it? Does it look okay?”

He leans his head down. I step closer and push a few curls aside with my unsteady fingers.

“Oh…yeah. It does look like it’s healing.”

He lifts his head. He smiles, but it looks strained. Or maybe tired. I think of how our last encounter ended and