Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 101667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 407(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 407(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
“I got your card and the picture. On Christmas Day,” I say finally, smiling shyly. “I loved it. It really made me happy.”
He studies my face, not reacting or responding. I can’t stop staring into his eyes or letting my gaze linger on other parts of his beautiful face, the angle of his jaw, the slight stubble on his cheeks and chin. I think he could have been a model, before what happened. He angles his head down toward me. For a second, I think…oh my…he’s going to kiss me, and my pulse goes into crazy rapid beats, and I pray I don’t faint. But all he does is lift his hand to pull a dead leaf out of my long hair, and I feel a slight tug as he gently pulls out whatever other bits are tangled in the strands. He flicks the pieces away just like he does with his cigarettes. I wonder how long I had a leaf on my head, and how silly I must have looked. Hopefully, it got stuck in there during the bike ride and not earlier. How embarrassing.
He doesn’t move away after he removes the leaf; instead, he stands there smelling of smoke, pine trees, and leather—just like his jacket, which I’m still engulfed in—and the scent transports me back to a year ago when he pulled me out of the hole and I fell against him. He smelled the same then, and it was frightening and inviting at the same time, just like it is now. Standing this close, with barely three inches of space between us, I feel his body heat, and it makes my insides quiver.
I have to force my brain to think, calm down, and not be so obviously affected by him, to not let him invade all of my senses. With the bad man, I had to hide my feelings to avoid a reaction from him. But Dr. Reynolds said I have to learn to let people see my feelings, and I have to let them have their own feelings. She said most people are good and genuine, not menacing or manipulative. Trying to retrain myself to believe that is difficult and confusing. Trusting people is hard.
“So… How did you get up there, onto the second floor of my parent’s house?”
“I’m good at climbing.”
Hmm.
“How did you know I would be there? Or which window was mine?”
His head tilts slightly to the side. “Maybe just a lucky guess?” His voice has a slight teasing tone, but we both know there’s more to it than guessing.
I wait then realize he’s not going to say anything else about the matter. I blink up at him. “Oh. Okay…well, if you do it again…climb up to my windows…be careful.”
His eyes flash with a darker emotional intensity. “Afraid I might fall?” he asks and, again, his words seem like they might be hinting at something else entirely.
“Yes,” I whisper.
“Me too.” The rasp is deeper now, raw and scratchier. It reaches my heart and drips down to my thighs. I feel like melted butter. I feel like I’m dreaming.
Are we talking about windows anymore?
I blink at him.
“You got a cell phone?” he asks, his voice still low.
The question throws me. “No. I have no one to call. My parents don’t want me to have things like that.”
He scoffs and leans closer to me again, tilting his head down toward my ear. “Don’t be a prisoner anymore, Holly,” he says softly. His breath makes me shiver, and my hands itch to reach up, to touch his arms or clutch his shirt, but I fist them at my sides, not wanting to do anything to break the spell we seem to be caught under.
“I’m trying,” I whisper back, although I’m not exactly sure what he means.
We pull back at the same time, and our faces are so close I can almost feel his skin graze against mine. I shiver all over again, head to toe, everywhere.
“I think I should go inside.” I unzip his jacket and slowly pull it off. “Thank you for the ride.”
“Tomorrow. Noon.” His eyes lower, his chest rising and falling as he shoves his arms into the leather jacket and lifts his hair out from beneath the collar.
“Okay.” I wonder what happened to my taxi girl and why she left me. Surely she must have had a good reason. I’ll call her in the morning and give her a chance to explain before I find a new driver, which is something I’d rather not have to do.
“Thanks for the good weirdness, Holly.” Straightening, he gives me a smile, which has a glint of wickedness in its curve, and gets back on his bike.
He said my name. And he smiled. At me. I feel the way those girls look, on the TV shows I spent so much time watching, when the guy they like finally pays attention to them. I feel giddy and nauseous, scared and happy and glowy. For the first time ever, I feel like a real girl. Nothing has ever felt better.