After curling his hand around mine, Alex guides me to the bed we spent a majority of our night wrestling on. The frustration slashed across his face jumps onto mine when he enters the bathroom to put on a pair of boxer shorts and plain black trousers.
He throws open the partially open curtain of our patio before joining me on the bed. The late morning sun sends hues of yellow and white dancing across his packed stomach and smooth pecs. I thought he was opening the curtain to let natural light into the room. Only now am I realizing that isn’t the case. He wants me distracted.
Before I can announce I am on to him, he twists his torso to face me. The worry in his eyes secures my devotion even more readily than his sexy six pack.
“I need you to know, nothing I am about to tell you is your fault.”
The fact he feels compelled to say that piques my suspicion. It also assures me this is one hundred percent my fault.
“There was something off about the man who assaulted me last night.”
I give him a look. It’s myduhface. “Clearly, only an insane man would go against one as strong and determined as you.”
My compliment has the effect I am aiming for. His somewhat deflated chest swells as his lips tug high. I had wondered last night if his silence stemmed from shame, but then I realized someone with confidence like Alex would never feel shame. He was mad about what happened, and frustrated by it, but from the details he shared, he’s aware size, shape, and vitality doesn’t matter when you’re victimized inside your comfort zone. That’s why he took me back to Texas after my home invasion. He knew my ranch was where I’d feel the safest.
“It wasn’t his stupidity that made him distinguishable. It was his mannerisms and size.”
I’m dying to jump in, but I’m truly lost. From the snippets of conversation I heard through the bathroom door, Alex used words like “waif.” Don’t get me wrong, I know size doesn’t matter when it comes to strength, but it seems pretty futile right now.
Recognizing that he is at point B, whereas I’m still struggling to find my way to point A, Alex rips the Band-Aid off in one quick succession. “I believe the man who assaulted me last night was the same man in your apartment Friday night.”
“Huh?”
I want to say more, but I’m too shocked to string words together. That doesn’t make any sense. Nothing he is saying makes sense. Danielle threatened me. When I failed to adhere to her threat, she turned up at Luca’s memorial with a pig’s heart. Alex arrested her, and she got carted off to jail, meaning my stalker case is now shut. It’s been solved. Done and dusted. Never to be mentioned again.
My brain stops trying to unjumble the evidence when Alex says, “My place of employment is at 4756 Marcotte Avenue.” He waits, giving me time to retrieve the Ravenshoe map stored in my head before continuing, “The windows in my office face the alleyway where you found me.”
“That proves nothing.” The drumming of my heart on my ribs echoes in my reply.
Although frustrated by my lack of trust, Alex continues chipping away at it. “What time did you arrive for your meeting last night?”
“A little before 11,” I answer, unsure what that has to do with anything.
“And where did your meeting occur?”
I lick my dry lips before answering, “In an office at the warehouse my employer is remodeling into a nightclub.”
“An office that happens to face Marcotte Avenue, with windows that can only be peered through from an elevated position, such as the office building across the street?”
My pulse thrums faster with each word Alex delivers.
“I wasn’t scheduled to work yesterday, but even if I were, my office is usually empty by 6 PM. Excluding janitors, it is rare to find anyone on the premises after dark.”
My pride rises to the occasion, but a voice in my head tells it to remain calm until we’ve gathered all the facts. “That’s circumstantial evidence. It will never hold up in court.”
Alex smirks, apparently amused at my attempt to switch our conversation from personal to business. I was, but it doesn’t mean he needs to laugh about it.
“I’m not here to convince members of a jury. I’m just hoping mygirlfriendwill hear me out.”
He stares straight at me when he says the dreaded “G” word, but I act coy. “No matter who you’re trying to convince, you need more evidence.”
Alex grumbles. “The person who assaulted me had dainty hands. . .” Before I can interrupt him with the assurance that a lot of men have dainty hands these days, he quickly adds on, “His size, hair coloring, and build match that of the assailant we caught on surveillance entering your apartment Friday night.”
A bolt of shock rattles my core. “Hold on, what? Go back a minute. You have surveillance of the person who entered my apartment Friday night?”
Alex smiles to hide the curse words streaming through his eyes before he dips his chin.
“How?” When he looks at me, confused, I reveal, “The owner of my building had his security personnel scour the tapes Saturday morning when he discovered my warped door. He said they didn’t find any evidence of a break in but requested I check my possessions just in case.”
