Page 7 of Stolen By the Hit Man
He roots around in the fridge and starts asking me a lot of questions. Easy ones to start with, such as what I like to eat. Then it gets weirder as he wants to know what size clothes I wear.
“Why do you need to know that?”
“So I can have Georgie pick up some clothes for you.”
“Who’s Georgie? And why would she be shopping for clothes for me?”
Is he pawning me off on someone else? Does she run a shelter of some kind? The thought of leaving this place, as crappy as it is, makes me sad. And not just because Joaquin is so unsettlingly appealing to me.
“What’s your husband’s name?” he asks as he busies himself at the kitchen counter with bread, meat, and cheese.
“Why?”
He turns around and slides a paper plate toward me on the table. Ham and cheese sandwich, and some Bugles. I almost laugh. I haven’t eaten Bugles since…wait, when was that, exactly?
I pick up the sandwich and take a huge bite, my stomach thanking me.
“Because I’m gonna send him a fruit basket.”
I look into those eyes as I eat my sandwich. A strange energy comes off him. It’s darkness. It’s danger. It’s death.
What the fuck is wrong with me? What am I doing here? In what scenario am I safer with Joaquin, who I’m pretty sure has never sent anyone a fruit basket in his life?
Unless “fruit basket” is code for something else.
“Braydon Smoot,” I say carelessly through a mouthful of food.
He squints at me. “Good girl.” His voice is as dark as the grave.
A sane person would run.
And yet…here I sit, glued to this uncomfortable chair.
My shoulders relax as Joaquin turns around and goes back to the fridge.
I take this opportunity to notice the way his jeans hug his cheeks and fit his thighs perfectly. A rare thing for measurements like his.
Numbers flash in my mind. Six foot four, 210 pounds, 34-inch waist, but he has to order a size bigger to accommodate his butt and thighs. But not for that brand.
That brand is special.
My mind clocks it, and suddenly, more facts appear like words spelled out on an imaginary whiteboard. He bought those jeans as raw denim, expensively made for people with money, butwho aren’t flashy about it. People who are particular and want to break in their jeans on their own terms.
And I know this because…well, it’s just something I know. But I don’t know why I know it, and that’s the frustrating part.
Knowing that this man is a denim-head makes me smile inside.
What else can I learn about him? For one thing, this house is a Cold War holdover and needs to be set on fire.
Suddenly, I’m mentally picking out new flooring and a coordinating set of designer curtains, cool art, white ceramic dishes, new appliances, and plants. That wall should be windy blue, and this floor should be marbled tile in graphite. Excuse me, what? Where did that come from?
I couldn’t remember my own name or my husband’s face when I woke up after the accident, but I remember types of denim, paint, and flooring, and I can identify a stranger’s measurements by sight. And yet, I can’t sew a single stitch?
Who am I? Who was I?
“So,” I say casually as I clean my plate and get up to look for the trash bin. “You said something about cats?”
I find the can under the sink and toss the paper plate. I don’t miss the way Joaquin’s eyes darken as I straighten up again, realizing I just accidentally flashed him my very unsexy white bra while I was bent over.
