Page 22 of Dare You to Run
My eyes immediately drop to my chest to see that in my haste to remove my sweatshirt and help Hendrix, I failed to notice that one of my boobs had fallen free from its cherry printed confines. My nipple is pebbled from the cool air as it sits exposed.
I yelp and tug my top up, shoving that bitch back under wraps where she should stay. I’m mortified and I can feel my face burn bright red.
“I am…so embarrassed. I think I will just go back to my room and stay there until you are finished with the car.”
I spin on my heels and try to sprint as far away as I can get –preferably to. the next state– but I’m stopped when a large hand grabs onto my arm.
“No. Don’t do that. Come inside and get your coffee. Besides, I barely saw anything.”
I look over my shoulder and see his face red and his lips rolled between his teeth as he works to stop the laugh that is wanting to explode.
My mouth presses into a flat line and I smack his bare and hard chest. “Hey,” he objects.
I would love to leave my hand right where it is, but I’m afraid that I’d end up on my knees, begging him to make me his concubine. And I can’t let that happen.
I pull my hand away like it’s been scorched by fire and stick it behind my back with the other. I stop myself from reaching out and rubbing my hand across the smooth plains of his body.
“You’re a horrible liar.” His face softens and he gives me a boyish grin and shrugs. “Now you owe me coffee and a muffin.”
“Settle for a kitchen sink cookie from Miss Shirley?” The door is pulled open and he steps aside to let me pass in front of him, probably to avoid me spilling anymore of his coffee on him.
“I’d trade my car for a dozen of those cookies.” My mouth waters just thinking about the way those sweet morsels melted on my tongue.
My bare feet pad across the wood-like tile and admire the beautiful living room, complete with a cozy reading chair and sophisticated artwork. Add in a gourmet kitchen and this is not the house that I imagined a guy like him living in.
“And you gave me shit for having money,” I grumble under my breath, not thinking he could hear me.
But of course, that’s not my luck. It seems like I don’t have any these days.
“The difference is Iearnedevery penny I have. Mommy and Daddy didn’t hand it over on a silver spoon.” Spinning around, I watch him lean against the kitchen counter and cross his arms over his chest.
I pretend to look at a watch on my wrist and tell him, “Wow. Almost a full eight hours without an insult. Was that difficult for you?”
Hard lines and furrowed brows wipe away any existence of the softer Hendrix that showed himself just a few moments ago. His chest expands and contracts with deep breaths, and I watch the way his nostrils flare. I’m sure if I stood closer to him, I’d hear the clicking of his clenched jaw.
His pink tongue swipes across his bottom lip just before his teeth sink into it. His tight muscles relax when he drops his arms and his gravelly voice asks, “Do you want regular coffee or espresso?”
“Just…a coffee. Thanks.” This man is so aggravating and confusing.
He’s so hot and cold –but mostly cold– and I wonder if he’s like this with every stranger he meets or if it’s just me that gets to be the lucky recipient of his foul mood.
With his back to me, he grabs a white, nondescript mug from the open shelf and places it on the sleek gray countertops. He picks up a pot that I realize is actually a french press and pours it into the mug. He pushes the full mug towards me, along a jar with sugar cubes and a pair of small silver tongs.
“There’s creamer or half and half in the fridge. Help yourself.” He refills his mug, adding one cube of sugar, thenwalks into his living room where he sits on a modern brown leather chair and acts like I don’t even exist.
I add a cube of sugar to my coffee and find hazelnut creamer in his fridge. Once I’ve prepared my cup o’ joe, I stand in his kitchen not saying a word and just sipping my drink.
Hendrix sets his mug down on a side table then picks up his phone and begins scrolling. I didn’t have the foresight to bring mine so I end up just being awkward. My eyes continue to wander around his home, taking in all the details.
“Dagen,” my name is called, pulling my attention away from admiring the light fixtures hanging in the kitchen.
“Hm?”
“Come sit please. You’re making me anxious and I really don’t like feeling that this early in the morning.” His eyes are stormy blue and they stare right at me.
“Okay. Thank you.” I pick up my mug and carefully walk to his creamy colored couch and gingerly sit down.
The silence that existed while I stood in the kitchen resumes, and now we sit closer to one another, still silent and still awkward. Hendrix continues to scroll through his phone, and I continue to sneak peeks at him, admiring his tattoos and perhaps his face and the body beneath the ink. I decide to break this weird tension and clear my throat.
