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But the windshield is tinted dark, so I can’t see who’s actually behind the wheel. I just stand there, frozen with fear, and try to remember how to breathe.
The sun has extinguished itself over the horizon. Night is reclaiming Evanston. All the sidewalks are empty and, except for the purring engine and my racing heart, everything is quiet.
Then the driver’s door swings open.
A foot hits the ground.
A giant’s foot. Booted, huge.
A leg follows, just as massive. I watch, transfixed, as a man unfurls himself from the vehicle.
When he’s out, my mouth flops open. To call him “gorgeous” is a disservice to the word. Honestly, calling him a “man” is kinda rude as well. He’s the kind of man who makes you want to reserve that label exclusively for him. He’sthatbig,thatstunning,thatchiseled from marble.
But my god, he isterrifying.
His jaw is clenched so tight it’s a wonder that his teeth don’t shatter like sugar glass. Those eyes are roiling storms, black whirlpools that function like an express lane to Hell.
And when he speaks, his voice comes out like The Devil himself.
“What thefuckis wrong with you?”
I know what you’re thinking: this is the part of the story where I quip something witty and go about my way. Back to my miserable house and the miserable family that lives there. This is the part where you admire the heroine’s tenacity and you kinda sorta maybe start to girl-crush a little bit, maybe put yourself in her shoes, maybe start to wonder how she’ll mend her relationship with her daddy and nurse her mommy back to health and finally go about solving the mysteries of all those past sins she vaguely alluded to before.
This is also the part of the story where none of that happens.
What happens instead is that I open my mouth to unleash a clever, devastating retort on this six-foot-six titan, but all that comes out is…
“Big.”
The man pauses. Of all the things he expected me to say, that couldn’t have been in the top hundred.
Finally, he says, “What?”
My cheeks flame. “You’re big,” I mumble stupidly. “Like, tall.”
“And you’re a fucking moron,” he snaps back. He rakes a huge hand through his thick, dark hair. “It’s after sundown, and you just sprinted blindly across the street, a hundred yards from the nearest crosswalk, without even pretending to look to see if anyone was coming to murder you with a car.”
He’s not, strictly speaking,wrong.But heisbeing a humongous douche about it. I’ve never had someone talk to me in a way that made me feel this small.
“Is that what you were doing?” I answer, finally remembering how to patch a subject and a verb together. “Coming to murder me? Honestly, great timing. I won’t even put up a fight.”
“So you’re recklessandinsane,” he mutters. “Fantastic.”
He pauses and surveys me as if finally seeing me for the first time. I can’t help but blush under his gaze. He’s got this way of looking at me that makes me feel like I’m in one of those bad anxiety dreams where you go to deliver the most important speech of your life and the whole crowd sees you naked. I wish I was wearing something less revealing than tiny pink Spandex running shorts and a black sports bra. Like a parka, maybe. Whatever it takes to conceal as much of me as possible from this man’s sinful eyes.
“I’m not insane,” I say. “Just casually having the worst day of my life. Well, one of them, at least. There’s a lot to choose from.”
He remains quiet for a long time. “Someone hit you,” he says at last. His eyes are locked on the cheek where Dad slapped me. I don’t even know how he saw the mark through the darkness and the flush from my running, but he did.
Something tells me this man doesn’t miss much.
I cover it up with one hand, while I simultaneously say, “No one hit me; what are you talking about?”
The man rolls his eyes. “I’d call you a terrible liar, but I’m pretty sure you’re already aware of that.”
“And I’d call you a terrible driver, but I’m pretty sureyou’realready aware ofthat.”
“Bold words from Blind Bambi in a sports bra,” he drawls.
