because she refused to look up at their faces. She had quite enough to process right now without bringing faces and expressions and human lifeforms into it.
But one of the men, presumably the one who had spoken, ruined things completely by bending down to her level. He could do that, you see, because he hadn’t fallen. The prick.
He crouched before her, bringing his faded jeans into view, and then his tight, black T-shirt—what a ridiculous outfit in February—and then… well, some rather interesting musculature.
That musculature broke through Ruth’s haze of unreasonable annoyance, prodding her sharply. It said, Look at that chest! Look at those biceps! You’d better check out his face, just to see if it’s equally impressive. Quality control, and all that.
Reigning in the urge to throw a temper tantrum—she was feeling fragile, what with the tissue in her knickers—Ruth looked up.
“Holy shit,” she said.
The most beautiful man on Earth frowned at her. “Are you alright? Did you hit your head?”
Ruth didn’t bother answering. Talking to this guy could not possibly be as worthwhile as simply looking at him. In fact, talking to him might ruin the effect. Or ruin her concentration, at least. So he continued to ask unanswered questions, and she continued to watch his lips move.
They looked soft. The thick, dirty-blonde beard covering his jaw looked soft too, matching the too-long hair falling over his brow. His bone structure, unlike his hair, didn’t look soft at all. Nor did his furrowed brows or his piercing eyes, blue as a summer sky. Of course, skies were never blue in England—but she’d seen the sky in Sierra Leone, had spent hours staring up at it from her grandmother’s garden. That was the best slice of sky on Earth, so she felt authorised to make the comparison.
The stranger’s voice was raw and satisfying, threaded with something that might’ve been concern, and it soothed Ruth’s embarrassment-induced irritation beautifully.
But then came a voice that brought it back ten-fold.
“Don’t bother,” said Daniel Burne. “She’s slow.”
Ruth’s head snapped up, her gaze settling on the person she hated most in the world.
His smile was as cruel and as gorgeous as ever. For a moment, Ruth’s heart lurched. But then she looked back at the stranger, who was still crouched beside her—who was frowning—and she felt slightly consoled.
The stranger was far more handsome than Daniel. How he must hate that.
Biting down on the inside of her cheek, Ruth stood. She ignored the fact that the tissue in her knickers felt slightly dislodged. She ignored the fact that there must be grit and dirt on her pyjama bottoms, and even ignored the fact that she was in her pyjamas at all, with only a jacket to hide them.
Ruth folded her arms across her chest and took a deep steadying breath, staring Daniel down. She said, “If I’m slow, what kind of man does that make you?”
His lip curled. “Opportunistic, perhaps.”
Direct hit, of course. She’d expected nothing less.
Her jaw set, Ruth turned on her heel. Daniel wasn’t worth talking to, anyway. He was beneath her notice. He was a gnat. But gnats were infuriating too, when you couldn’t squash them.
“Wait!” the stranger called.
Ruth ignored him. She walked faster. She could see her car now, just a few metres away, gleaming like an oasis in the desert.
Then she heard the heavy footsteps of a man running behind her. “Miss!” he called. “You dropped your…”
Ruth stopped. Her hands balled into fists. She spat out, “For fuck’s sake,” and her breath twisted before her like smoke in the evening air.
The man was right behind her now. “I’m sorry,” he said. He seemed to say that a lot.
She turned to face him. He really did look apologetic. Maybe because she’d fallen, maybe because Daniel was a prick, or maybe because he was holding out the box of tampons she’d dropped.
At the newsagent, Mrs. Needham had asked if she wanted a bag for five pence, and Ruth had thought, Goodness me, five pence on a bag when I have two good hands? And said, “No, thank you.”
Now she was rather wishing she had parted with the five pence.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” the man asked. “I’m sorry about… Daniel’s behaviour.” He said Daniel’s name with the sort of tone she’d use to say kitten killer. Maybe that’s what this gorgeous stranger thought: that Ruth was a kitten.
She snatched the tampons from him, turned her back, and walked away. He’d learn the truth soon enough.