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As the helicopter finally pulls away, quiet returns, leaving us only with the fading roar of rotors and our breathing.
Valentina’s hold on me is tight, her wide eyes peering into mine with streaks of dust on her face and pieces of glass caught in her clothes and windblown hair.
“You okay?” I ask, my voice low and shaking, still catching up to my pulse.
She blinks, nods once, and then looks up at me with something halfway between awe and disbelief. I understand. I’m feeling something incredibly similar.
“It’s me, Shane,” I add. “Your upstairs neighbor.”
“I know who you are. New Guy. Trash-bag guy. Shane Maddox.”
I laugh. I can’t help it.
“How about you just call me Shane?”
“Well, Shane,” she says, still staring up at me with her big blue eyes. “I think you just saved my life.”
Yeah. Holy fuck.
14
Valentina
4:45 p.m.
There’s still glass in my hair, sparkling like the world’s most traumatic accessory every time I move my head as Shane “the trash-bag neighbor” carries me up the stairwell toward his condo. The building’s alarms blare, and sirens outside congregate at Magnolia’s entrance.
I should probably be screaming my head off or bawling like a baby, but I think I’m still in shock.
My phone buzzes inside my pocket—the group chat no doubt blowing up—but I tuck my face into the line of Shane’s collarbone and ignore it for now. I can’t wait to see the damage control / reverse psychology bullshit Rita tries to pull with this one.
Oh, no, dear, it’s not my husband’s fault an AC unit hit your condo. It’s yours. Violation!
Shane unlocks his door with a keypad he must have installed and carries me inside before setting me carefully on my feet.
A quick look around adds a layer of surprise atop my shock. There are no stacks of dishes in the sink. No piles of laundry. No clutter. I don’t know why I’m focused on how clean his condo is right now, but it’s damn near open house ready. It’s oddly grounding. And I don’t know if it’s his aftershave or cologne or potpourri, but the smell is transfixing.
“Sit,” he says gently, motioning to the couch.
I do, mostly because my legs feel like they might mutiny if I don’t, and he disappears into his bedroom. My hands shake, and I try to steady them on my knees.
When he returns, he has a first-aid kit and a damp towel in his hands.
“You don’t have to—”
“Hold still,” he cuts me off softly. “I just need to take a look at you, okay? I promise I’ll be gentle.”
He kneels in front of me, cleaning the tiny cuts and road-rash abrasions along my arm where the broken glass and cement from my balcony made contact with my skin. He’s careful and methodical, and I find myself focusing on the steady lull of his breathing as he moves over the tender spots of damage from Ken’s AC unit.
His hands and the washcloth are warm, and my eyes fall closed on their own accord. I don’t question it. I just let myself . . . relax.
“From what I can tell, everything looks superficial,” he updates me quietly. “Just needs a little cleaning.”
My eyelids fight valiantly as I pull them open, a tiredness from the crash of adrenaline much stronger than I would expect washing over me. A small smile curves his mouth.
“How are you feeling?”
An unexpected laugh jumps from my lungs.
