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“Shh, Harlow, don’t scream, please. I’ve been trying to get to you for weeks. You have to hear me out,” the strange, but very attractive man pleads. Shaking my head, I feel anything but fear for the person in front of me, which makes zero sense, it’s almost like… I know him.
“Please, Harlow, just one minute and then I’ll be gone, I promise I’m not here to hurt you.” My brow furrows in confusion. He sounds sincere and honestly kind of desperate, and I don’t know what to do. If I should scream and push him away or let him explain himself.
“I’m going to pull my hand away, please don’t scream.” Those eyes, those big piercing blue eyes hold mine, and something compels me to nod my head. Letting the stranger know that I won’t scream, even though I know I should.
Slowly, he pulls his hand away, and I suck in a ragged breath of fresh oxygen, letting it filter into my lungs. With it comes his intoxicating scent; raindrops, and sandalwood, like the forest after a storm. A kaleidoscope of butterflies seems to take flight in my stomach right at that moment. Whoever this man is, I knew him, and so did my body.
“Harlow, you don’t belong here, I know that probably doesn’t make sense, but you have to believe me, your parents are lying to you. You weren’t happy here. It’s all a lie. Do you understand me?”
I stare up at him, listening to every word that passes his lips, trying to make sense of each one. Who is this guy, and why is he saying all of these things to me? How does he know my parents? How does he know that I wasn’t happy here? I have so many questions, but there are no answers, at least not within sight.
“My brothers and I believe that you’re in danger here. I want to help you, will you please let me help you?”
“I… I don’t know who you are…” I stutter.
The man smiles coyly, “Sullivan Bishop, and we have a past. Some I wish you could remember and some I hope you never do.”
Puzzled, I ask, “What does that mean?”
Sighing, he says, “Nothing, right now. I didn’t come here for my own wants. I came here because I’m worried about you. You almost died, Harlow.” His voice cracks at the end, showing the raw emotion he’s feeling.
“I’m not in danger,” I answer without hesitation. “I was in a car accident.”
“You don’t understand,” Sullivan growls, pressing a clenched fist to his lips. “What do you remember? Anything?”
I shake my head, growing more and more confused. The air becomes heated between us, and all I can feel, and smell in the confined space is him. It’s annoying and comforting all at once.
“Harlow, sweetie, how does the dress fit? Let me see it.” My mother’s voice filters through the closed door. Before I can open my mouth, Sullivan presses a finger to my lips.
Panic fills every crevice on Sullivan’s face, and he grabs me gently by the shoulders, leaning into me, his hot breath caressing my ear, “She can’t know I’m here,” he whispers so only I can hear him. I nod, letting him know I understand. He releases his hold on me and takes a small step back. He’s trusting me and deep down I know I cannot let him down.
“It didn’t fit. I’m about to come out,” I call through the closed door. Only then do I realize that I had taken my shirt off and have been standing here with nothing but my bra and jeans on the entire time. Heat creeps up my chest and into my cheeks and Sullivan crouches down picking up the shirt which I dropped when he stormed in here. He hands it to me, and I take it from him mouthing a thank you, before slipping back into it.
He didn’t even look at my chest, just my eyes and face.
“Awe, I really wanted to see you in it. Doesn’t matter, you’ve got plenty of dresses at home. We need to go if we’re going to be home when Matt and his father get there.”
“Coming, just a second…” I answer. Sullivan’s gaze turns murderous, but he doesn’t say anything else. I want to ask him what she said that angers him so much, but I don’t. I watch as he presses himself all the way to the wall so I can open the door without him being seen. I grab the dress, which never left the hanger and step out of the dressing room like nothing ever happened.
“You okay?” Mom asks, looking up from her cell phone, her eyes roaming over my face, “You look a little flustered.”
“Uhh,” I clear my throat, “I’m fine, just ready to go home is all.”
She stares at me as if she’s trying to determine if I’m telling the truth or not, and I start to sweat, my gut tightening, twisting and turning.
