Because I hadn’t sensed that—not at all—until her mother burst out of the restaurant in a panic and dragged Hattie away from me like I was a pervert.
Can’t you see she’s vulnerable?
Oh, God.
And when she said it, Hattie had objected, yeah. But not much. Not the way, say, I would object if Pop or anyone treated me like a child and informed me we were going home.
So, was I completely wrong about her?
Did I just see a beautiful woman and project all the rest? The way it felt like I’d met the human equivalent of an uncorked bottle of champagne?
I’ve never been around anyone who frothed over with… with a life force like hers.
Because before Hattie had even said one word to me, when she opened her eyes and found me staring, I thought I was looking at the most beautiful thing in creation and I’d never want to stop looking.
And then she spoke, and it was like stepping from solid ground onto a waterslide. A slippery, high-speed, cork-screwed plummet that spun me ass over ankles before dunking me into the deep end.
She was unlike anyone I’ve ever met.
Guileless.
Open.
Unafraid.
But did I completely miss something critical about her? That she… can’t be independent? And I’m… I’m some kind of creep?
I groan again, nauseated at the thought.
“What the hell is wrong with me?” I ask the ceiling.
Because what would’ve happened if her mother hadn’t come out when she did?
I snort because I know exactly.
I was seconds away from asking for her number. Her name. Her Instagram handle. Anything that would’ve allowed me to find her again.
Anything that would have given me more of her.
So, what is the matter with me? How could I have missed something so fundamental? Am I going crazy, living in this silent, angry, bitter house? Was witnessing someone who experienced a full spectrum of complex and genuine emotion enough to blind me to the obvious?
Am I that pathetic?
I try like hell to swallow the disappointment, but damn. I’m disappointed.
Talking to Hattie felt like a privilege.
A gift.
Hell, it felt like air.
And, not only am I back to suffocating, I’m also questioning my judgment.
My integrity.
“Fuck—” I groan, thumping the back of my skull against the wooden headboard.
My silenced phone buzzes on my nightstand, saving me from further head injury.
