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“I told you I wasn’t making any promises.” He feeds his key into the ignition, and the engine rises to life.
“Where can I take you?” he asks.
“Oh, I live over on…”
Shit.
I can’t remember my address.
It’s either Catherine or Mary. Definitely a girl’s name. How the hell am I going to explain to Dax that I don’t know where I live?
“Take King to Victoria, left on Cannon. I’ll tell you where to turn.”
Dax pulls the car out into traffic, and we travel down King in silence, hitting green lights all the way. The lights from the streetlamps temporarily illuminate his features, highlighting his strong jaw.
I’m not sure if it’s the lighting or if the last five minutes have scarred me in ways I can’t begin to unpack, but Dax looksdifferent. Older? Wiser too, maybe? It’s like that goofy guy I met four years ago in a bar has slowly been replaced piece by piece with this quietly confident man. And for some reason, I failed to notice it happening.
If I’m having an epiphany, it’s halted when I recognize the scraggly maple on the upcoming corner. “Left!” I point to what is, in fact, Catherine Street.
Dax makes a quick turn.
“It’s the white house up on the right.”
He pulls up in front and cuts the engine.
“Well, thank you for the ride. And the rescue. And the patch-up.” I rub my bandage-covered chin.
“Do you need help getting to your door?” Dax nods at the darkened house behind me.
I shake my head. “It’s pretty much a straight shot. Only one sharp turn, but you can see it coming. I think I’ll be okay.”
He moves from his seat, around the car, and to my door so quickly that I have barely undone my seatbelt before he’s holding my door open. He offers his hand, helping me and my groceries out onto the sidewalk, and we stand, facing each other, both with the same uncertain posture as if neither of us is sure of what comes next.
Dax clears his throat. “Maybe I should give you my number. So you can text me and let me know you got in okay.”
I know his number by heart, but this is the progress I’ve been waiting for.
I pull my phone from my purse and enter his digits as he says them, then send a text to him with the message,thanks again. Gemma.
As I place my phone back into my purse, the strap slips from my shoulder. Dax moves like a flash, catching it before it falls to the sidewalk.
“Thanks,” I tell him as he carefully places the strap back on my shoulder, noticing how warm his fingers are even through the heat of my sweatshirt.
It fills me with this urge to dive into his arms again. To feel safe. To feel like me. But he removes his fingers before I do anything stupid.
“You good?” he asks.
“Great,” I answer honestly. “Really great.”
I keep to my promise and make it all the way to my basement without any serious injuries.
I unload my groceries and get ready to take what is thankfully a now spider-free shower, but before I start the water, my phone vibrates on the counter.
It’s a text.
From him.
A link to a recipe for banana bread and the wordsjust in case.
