Page 35 of Blindsided By You

Not the type of need that got us here, into her bed, allowing our mutual lust to drive our connection. There’s a deep, desperate craving for her just to be with me, to want me not for the sex but for what I could be for her. It seems like she’s never had a good guy in her life before. I want to be the first; and—fuck it, is it too soon to say this? The only.

I want to take care of her, ease her worries, soothe her fears. I may not be the most subtle of men, but I see there’s plenty lying underneath the face this woman shows to the world. She’s strong for everyone. She’s always looking out for her dad—at the party last week, supporting him in facing the crowd when their grief is obviously still so damn raw; fussing around him at the lunch stop; bringing him drinks in the bar—showing she’ll always step up forhim. The phone calls I overheard while working in her office suggest she’s totally there for her clients, too. I want her to understand I can be strength for her; be the one person who she doesn’t have to worry about, but know I’m there to offer care and comfort for her. She’s incredible, and she deserves that.

I let myself drown in imaginings of Jenna and me like this in the future—her tucked in safe with me and my lonely heart safe with her. Sleep grabs at me, and I let it take hold, happy for it to pull me under, knowing she will fill my dreams; and when I wake this real-life woman who is so much more than any dream will still be here.

I’m woken abruptly, immediately bolt upright. I throw back the bedcovers. In an automatic response to years of drills, my feet hit the floor and in the pitch dark I scrabble blindly for clothes as the fire alarm’s piercing scream assaults my ears. Then, as it rips away the fog of sleep, I remember where I am—and who I’m with.

I flick on a light. Jenna jolts up to sitting; hair wild, her face distorted in response to the painful wail surrounding us, the tone and volume deliberately designed to repel.

“Quick, we need to get out,” I yell.

The words are unnecessary as a mechanical voice cuts across the blare.

‘Attention hotel guests. A fire alarm has been activated. Please leave your rooms immediately and proceed to the nearest emergency exit. Do not use lifts. Do not return to your rooms to collect belongings.’

Jenna reaches for the white fluffy dressing gown lying discarded on the floor, where I unwrapped her from it. There’s no time to admire her still sex-sated, drowsy face as I buckle up my jeans and pull on boots. No way am I accompanying her outside wearing onlya bathrobe. It’s probably going to be very obvious what’s been going on between us, but no point in labouring the point by appearing wrapped only in a piece of towelling.

Tugging on my Scotland rugby jersey, I head for the door. With practised hands I sweep across the flat wood-panelled surface but feel no trace of heat. I sniff the air, but there’s no tang of smoke. I edge it open to be sure, and then yank it wide, confident that whatever has triggered this rude interruption, it’s not out here.

The shrieking alarm rises from uncomfortable in the room to painful as I open up to the corridor.

“EVACUATE THE BUILDING,” the voice commands.

My hands automatically clamp over my ears, fingers pushing deep inside in a useless attempt to dampen the pain. There’s no sign of fire or even a whiff of smoke.

As I emerge from Jenna’s room, I scan left and right, but there’s no one else in sight. Our secret is safe for now. The rest of the team, and more importantly Jenna’s father, are well away from here in a completely different wing of the building. Chances are those stairs at the end of the corridor, with the giant green ‘FIRE EXIT’ sign, also lead to a different door out of the hotel. If luck is on our side, we can separate at the bottom and filter into the assembly area out front from different directions. Hopefully, none of them will work out we’ve come from the same place.

I’m just about to turn back into the room to hurry her along—my head is starting to ache from the onslaught of sound—when the door from the one other room on this floor flies open.

A guy in the remains of a suit bursts into the corridor. He stands paralysed at the sight of me. He’s lost the jacket and his vest hangs loose. A striped tie dangles around his neck, the collar undone—infact, his shirt is half unbuttoned. The white cuffs of his shirtsleeves flap at the wrists. He’s so baby-faced he looks like he’s been playing dress-ups in his dad’s wardrobe.

One hand is clamped to an ear, and the other presses a phone to his head. He’s screaming into it, which is rather pointless given the wall of sound trapping us. There’s no way anyone could hear above that. As if realising this too, he pulls the phone away, ending the call with a frustrated stab of a finger.

Noticing he’s got company, he mouths a word at me. I knot my brows in a confused frown. I think I know what he said, but that can’t be right.

“Sorry.” He bellows the word again.

My frown deepens as I stare at him, totally baffled. Why the hell is he apologising to me? Has this guy chosen to burn down the building in some fit of insanity, and now he’s apologising before we’re all incinerated?

“No fire,” he yells across at me. I can’t hear the sound, but I’m sure my lip reading is accurate as he carries on. “There’s no fire. You don’t have to leave. We’re not.”

“There’s no fire?” I scream back at him.

“No,” he yells. “Just this.” He gives an embarrassed shake of his head towards his room, pushing the door wide open. I can see the room opposite is a mirror of Jenna’s, a suite; a bridal suite.

But unlike ours, in this room there really is a bride. A dark-haired woman, her elaborate up-do coming apart, her face contorted in what could be pain, fury, or embarrassment, stands hands on hips glaring at her husband. Sheathed in white fabric, she’s all gleaming curves, lit up in a blaze of candlelight.

Candles top every piece of furniture in the room. Their jaunty flames flicker off walls and ceiling, bathing the room in golden light. Small wisps of smoke spiral upwards. Petals are strewn across the carpet and the bed. There’s an open bottle of champagne.

“I was trying to be romantic,” he yells across at me. “But I set the fucking alarm off.”

I’m impressed by his effort to set the mood for their wedding night. He did well except for the bloody candles.

Seeing the actual flames reminds me of Jenna, and how fearful she is of fire. I need to reassure her there’s no danger. I’m about to turn and check she’s on her way out of the room, when she arrives, colliding full force against my back. Her arms slide around my waist.

“What’s up?” she yells against my ear.

“It’s OK,” I bellow back. “There isn’t a fire.” I grin down at her. “This is so fucking funny. You’ve got to see it.”

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