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First of all, she looks incredible in my clothing. She looks luscious and sweet and curvy as hell. Her hair is down and damp, and it flows gently over her shoulders. Everything about her screams sweet and innocent, except for the fact that she’s no longer wearing a bra. Her nipples are hard and poking at the thin fabric of the shirt. I look away quickly and meet her gaze.
“Thank you for the clothes.” She reaches for the baby and I hand him over.
“I don’t have any baby clothes.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she says. “I might have some dry ones in the bag.”
“The bag?”
Oh.
She has a little bag. She pulls it open and sure enough, the interior happens to be waterproof and she’s got clothing and diapers in there, along with what looks like baby food. I don’t know what babies like to eat, but if I had to guess, it doesn’t taste very good, at least judging by the contents of the bag.
The woman gets to work changing the baby into dry clothes and I watch silently.
“Can I get a towel?” She asks, looking up at me. “He’s still really wet.”
“Of course.”
I head to the bathroom, grab a towel, and come back. Then I look at her and the baby, and I try to figure out what the hell is going on. Why are th
ey here? Of all of the places in the world they could be, why my home? Why now? Why tonight?
She finishes dressing the baby and then looks up at me.
“We don’t stay long. Just until the storm stops.”
“Like hell,” I find myself saying, and I think I’m just as surprised as she is by my intensity.
“Excuse me?”
“I said, like hell. You’re running from something, and I’m not about to send you and this baby back outside until we get that squared away.”
She tenses and looks at me.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I?” I raise an eyebrow. “We’re in the middle of nowhere, sweetheart. You’re not dressed to go hiking. You’re out here with a kid. I doubt you have enough diapers in that little bag of yours to last you more than two or three days, tops. You took off at a moment’s notice and grabbed only what you could.”
She stares at me, gawking.
“How close am I?”
“Okay,” she whispers. “Pretty close.”
I take a seat at the kitchen table and cross my legs. I’m not going anywhere. From the looks of the storm raging outside, neither is she. There are a million questions racing through my head, but I bite back all of them and just wait patiently.
I can outwait her.
There’s no doubt about it.
Quickly, I take in this woman. She’s got a manicure and her hair, despite being wet, looks like it’s well-maintained. She had it cut recently. Her skin looks soft and creamy, so I can tell that she takes good care of herself. She looks like she’s much too well-groomed to be the kind of girl who goes camping in the woods with strangers.
So, who is she?
And why did she wander onto my doorstep?
“Let’s start with your name,” I say finally.
