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I don’t stop until I’m outside, and by then, I’m sobbing.
At least out here, there are only a couple of people milling by the entrance, and they don’t see me. I consider waiting for a moment, hoping Mia saw me tear by. She was my ride. But there’s a sports bar across the street with a patio packed with people. The last thing I want is more people staring, and my apartment is only a few blocks away.
I begin walking fast. I’m nearly at the corner when I hear my name.
“Cora!”
It’s not Mia. It’s a man’s voice. I whirl around, my arms still folded over my chest. Then I freeze, my mouth open.
It’s the guy from inside. Beard and hat. The whole reason I’m out here soaked in beer. “Leave me alone.” I start walking again.
“Wait!” The guy jogs up so he’s ahead of me. He pulls off his hat, and I’m so surprised by the move—and distracted by the sexy flop of dark hair that falls over his forehead—that I don’t realize what he’s doing next. That is, until his arm reaches over his shoulder and in one smooth move, he grasps the back of his shirt and pulls it over his head.
I halt, alarmed. He’s standing there shirtless. “What are you doing?”
“Take it.”
“Are you crazy? You can’t walk around with no shirt.”
“And you can’t walk home like that. It’s cold.”
He’s right. It’s late August, but fall is in the air, and my skin is raised in gooseflesh.
“Cora, please—"
“How do you know my name?”
“They were calling it as you ran out.”
I swallow and look down.
But across the street, someone at the sports bar hoots. Another yells, “The gun show’s that way, bro!” while flexing his bicep.
He’s being nice. He doesn’t have to be here, subjecting himself to embarrassment.
I make a snap decision. I grab his hand and pull him around the corner onto the side street, into the shadow of the building’s wall. We’re close now; so close I can see gooseflesh on his shoulders in the dim light cast by the nearby streetlamp.
So close I can smell him. He smells like soap and fabric softener and beer.
Actually, that last part’s probably all me.
Our eyes meet, and my stomach swoops.
Him. I can kiss him.
The idea is absurd. I’m still a sticky mess.
But he hasn’t let go of my hand. In fact, as we stand there, our eyes locked, he runs a thumb over my knuckles. I don’t think he knows he’s doing it.
I want to kiss him.
Suddenly, I can’t think of anything else. “I—” I say, my mouth making a feeble attempt to say something. But now my lips have parted, heat curls in the lower part of my belly. He’s got beautiful eyebrows, I think absurdly. Dark slashes under his mussed hair, and a fringe of thick lashes to match.
He’s gorgeous. And almost… familiar.
Adrenaline shoots through me. Do I know him? There’s no one Ikindof know in this town. I either do or I don’t. “Wait, what’s your name?” I ask.
Please let this be a beautiful stranger.
