Page 58 of How You See Me
Draping the blanket over her feels more like adding a shield to her. A shield protecting us both from me.
I’ve already gone too far. In my mind. In my want.
As I reach for the door, her hand curls around my arm.
“Don’t go,” she whispers.
And that’s all it takes to bring me back. She needs help and protection. And that’s exactly what she’ll get. Nothing more. Nothing less.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
I retreat to the driver’s seat to shake off the battlefield-like adrenaline spikes bathing her caused. But even as I try my usual calming techniques—tapping my chest and controlling my breathing—I know a reset isn’t possible. Not tonight at least.
I hope I didn’t cross the line—do too muchor not enough.
There will be no resting until two sober blue eyes tell me she’s okay.
Maybe then, I can reset and get back to normal . . . whatever that is now.
Chapter 13
Josie
My eyes open and instinctively shut, reacting to a surprise spotlight of sun, and I throw my arm over my face to block it out. My head and muscles ache as if I ran a marathon, not—
Okay. Deep breaths. What happened last night?
Dancing. On. A. Bar.
Shiitake. I did that.
Did I make a fool of myself? I vaguely remember feeling invincible for once. That is until the nausea interrupted what I thought might be an ill-advised kiss (of course, it didn’t seem so ill-advised at the time), and we rushed to the restroom. Much after that it’s a blur. Empty stomach. Lots of regret. Blackout.
And now I’m here.
I pat the cushy mattress under me. I’m either in the van or a hospital bed, hopefully not a sketchy motel. My hands move to my body, patting my weirdly stiff clothes.
Opening one blurry eye, the familiar textured ceiling, scattered with rainbow flecks from the little beads strung across the window, tells me I’m in the van. I wasn’t sick enough to warrant a hospital stay and somehow made it back to the van.
The waving trees outside means we’re no longer parked in a downtown Nashville lot either.
That’s when I smell the familiar scent of bacon and eggs. If I wasn’t so hungover, I might welcome it. The last thing I want to do is put more food in my stomach and possibly see it again. Last night was memorable enough.
I drag my feet out from under the sheets and hold them up to examine the horror my escapades left on my legs.
There’s . . . nothing. Not a smudge in sight.
My hands fly up next. The skin on my arms feels clean and refreshed, not like I passed out on a sticky restroom floor.
I’m still wearing my jean shorts and cowgirl tee, so at least no one saw me naked while . . .
Did I miss someone giving me a sponge bath? Did Hayes?
A shiver prickles up my back, not entirely from mortification. That’s there, but also something warm and fuzzy and suspiciously like longing. Did I miss the one moment I’ve spent months low-key fantasizing about—his hands on me, caring for me, touching me with thatmaddening gentleness he thinks he hides behind a hardened exterior?
If he did, I’m sorry I missed that. So. Achingly. Sorry.
Sitting up, I spot a water bottle on the floor and two aspirin beside it. Of course, he thought of that.
