Snow is melting in the gutters, turning the pavement into a slick gray slush. I scan the parking lot, my eyes narrowing as I search for her.
I spot her car immediately. It’s a sedan, older than I am, with a dent in the rear bumper and a mismatched hubcap. It’s parked just two spots down from my SUV, the engine idling roughly, a plume of blue smoke sputtering from the tailpipe.
Lucky break.
If she’d parked at the far end of the lot, I might have missed her. But she’s right there. I can see her silhouette through the windshield, slumped forward.
I walk quickly to my car, opening the rear hatch to retrieve my emergency kit. Every chef and baker I know keeps one in their vehicle; you never know when you’ll need a knife, a spare apron, or in this case, medical supplies.
My kit is a sturdy canvas tote with a red cross stitched on the side. I unzip it and do a quick inventory.
Alcohol wipes—check. Sterile gauze pads—check. Medical tape—check. A small tube of antibiotic ointment—check. And a bandage.
I zip it back up and sling the strap over my shoulder. The walk to her car feels longer than it should, the wind cutting through my coat.
When I reach the driver’s side window, I hesitate for just a second. I don’t want to startle her again. She was already jumpy enough to knock over a display of wine.
I rap my knuckles gently against the glass.Tap, tap, tap.
The silhouette jerks. Slowly, the window rolls down. The heater in her car is blasting full force, carrying with it the scent of old upholstery and… her.
Up close, she’s even prettier than I realized from a distance. Her long lashes are spiked with tears, her cheeks flushed pink from the cold or the crying.
Her eyes are hazel—striking, multifaceted green and gold that seem to shift with the light. They match the chunky knit sweater she’s wearing perfectly. Her chestnut hair is a wild mess of waves, partly escaping a bun that’s seen better days.
She looks at me, wide-eyed, like a rabbit caught in a snare.
“Amber?” I keep my voice low, soft.
“Eli,” she breathes out, her shoulders dropping an inch. She looks down at her hands, which are gripping the steering wheel so hard her knuckles are white. “I… I’m so sorry about running off. I just… I panicked.”
“It happens,” I assure her. I gesture toward her hand. “You’re bleeding.”
She glances down at her palm as if noticing the injury for the first time. A thin line of red is welling up from a jagged cut near her thumb. “Oh. It’s nothing. Really.”
“I insist,” I tell her, holding up the canvas bag. “I have a kit. Please. It would make me feel a hell of a lot better if you let me fix it.”
She looks at the bag, then back at my face. Her eyes search mine, looking for something—malice, judgment, annoyance. She won’t find any of those things. I just want to help.
Finally, she nods, reaching for the door lock.Click.
“Okay.”
I wait as she leans over to the passenger seat to move a large paper bag stamped with the Lorelai’s Bakery logo. The smell of cinnamon and sugar wafts out, mixing with her scent.
I open the door and slide into the passenger seat. The suspension of her old car groans under my weight. It’s a tight fit; I’m not a huge guy, but the interior of this sedan feels like it was built for hobbits. My knees bump against the dashboard.
I turn toward her, the kit resting on my lap. Up close, I can smell her so clearly. Beneath the tears and the stress, there is the scent of jasmine—sweet, heady, undeniably Omega. But layered over that is the metallic smell of rain. It’s the scent of distress, of cold misery. My instincts bristle. Something bad happened today. Something before she ran into me.
“Give me your hand,” I murmur.
She hesitates, then extends her right arm. Her hand is small, her fingers slender. There’s a small inked phoenix on her wrist, fresh and vibrant, the skin around it still red.
I take her hand gently in mine. Her skin is ice cold. I cup my other hand over hers, trying to transfer some warmth before I even start cleaning the wound.
“You’re freezing,” I note.
“I’m okay,” she replies, her voice barely above a whisper. “Just the shock.”
