I knock on the door. “Jack?”
Still no answer.
I slowly push open the door with my hand.
The bedroom is empty too.
“Why are you in my apartment?” The deep voice comes from behind me.
I simultaneously scream and spin on the spot. In turn causing Eleven to freak out. She ejects from my arms and bolts. I feel a sharp pain on my arm. But my heart is beating too hard, adrenaline rushing through my body too quickly for me to pay it any attention.
“Jesus! Jack!” I press my hand to my chest. I’m panting, out of breath, like I just ran a marathon.
Jack is staring at me with a mixture of amusement curling his mouth and apprehension in his eyes.
Which makes sense. Because he just found his neighbor, whom he met only yesterday, standing in his bedroom.
“S-sorry,” I stammer. “Eleven was at my door, scratching it, and I was ju-just bringing her back to you. Your door was open, and I called your name, but you didn’t answer. I was worried, so I came in to check that you weren’t hurt or anything. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s not every day I come home to find a pretty girl in my bedroom.”
Unease slides down my spine, freezing my body up, at the same time my brain registers that Jack thinks I’m pretty.
The unease must show on my face though because the smile on his face disappears, and he’s quick to say, “Sorry, that was a bad pun.”
“Oh. Oh, okay. Right.” I fidget nervously. “Will Eleven be okay?”
“Yeah. She’ll be fine now. Not much fazes her.”
He backs up, walking out of his bedroom, and I follow him through to the living room.
And there, chilling on the sofa, is Eleven.
“Told you.” He smiles in the direction of his cat.
I look over at Eleven. “Sorry I scared you, cutie.”
“I thought I had shut the door,” Jack says to me, heading into the open-plan kitchen. “I must not have latched it properly.”
My legs stop in the living room, but my eyes follow him to the kitchen. “You didn’t lock it?” I ask, confused.
“No.” He shakes his head. “I just popped downstairs to see Mr. McCluskey.”
Mr. McCluskey is the live-in handyman in our apartment building.
There used to be a time when I would have left the door unlocked to pop downstairs. Back when I feared nothing because I didn’t know better.
Now, I fear everything, and I can’t even step out into the hall without locking up behind me.
“The shower has been acting up,” he continues, reaching into a cupboard and pulling out two mugs. “Can I get you a coffee? Tea?” He holds the mugs up.
“Oh. Erm …”
If I take a drink, then I’ll have to stay. Sit down. Make conversation. Talk about myself. He might ask questions …
“No, thank you. I should get back.” I’m already walking to the door.
“Oh. Okay. Sure.” He seems surprised by my answer.
Maybe he’s used to women wanting to stay around him. I would if I were still the old Audrey. I would have even had my flirt on the moment I met him. But not now.
I’m not even sure I know how to flirt anymore.
“Well, thanks for looking out for Eleven. Again,” he adds.
I pause by the now-closed door and glance over at him. He’s leaning against the kitchen countertop, facing me.
“It’s fine.” I tuck some stray hairs behind my ear.
“You’re bleeding.” Jack is already moving toward me, concern etched on his face.
“Huh?” I lower my arm, twisting it around, and see a big scratch down the outer side of my forearm, blood trickling from it.
Before I register what is actually happening, Jack takes ahold of my arm, cupping the elbow in his hand, his other hand curled around mine, and he guides me to the kitchen.
I try not to pay attention to how large his hand is, compared to mine. Or how it feels to have his skin touching mine.
Jack is touching me.
“I’m okay. Really.” I try to tug my arm free, but he keeps a firm but gentle hold of it.
“Let me clean you up. Eleven must have scratched you when I scared you both.”
“It was my fault. I screamed and scared her. I shouldn’t have been in here—”
His eyes fix on mine. My heart jumps into my throat.
“You were being a good person.” He squeezes my elbow and then releases his hold on me. “Just wait there a second.”
I watch, a little dumbstruck, as he backs up out of the kitchen and goes into the living room. I want to tell him that I’m not a good person. I’m the kind of person who gets people murdered.
Jack rummages around in one of the boxes and pulls out a first aid kit a few moments later.
I avert my eyes as he walks back to me, pretending like I find the floor insanely fascinating.
He stops in front of me, putting the first aid kit on the counter beside me.
God, he smells good. Like the outdoors. Cedar wood and something inherently male.
My ovaries shimmy with happiness.
Down, girls. It ain’t happening.
He rips open an antiseptic wipe, bringing my eyes to his hands and forearms. They’re strong and tanned.
He takes hold of my arm again. “This will sting.”
I lift my eyes to his face. His eyes are already on mine.
My heart putters to a stop.
“You ready?” he asks me.
All I can do is nod.
The first brush of the wipe over the cut stings like a bitch, but I take it like a woman.
I have experienced far worse than this in the past.
“Okay?” he checks as he continues to wipe over the scratch.
I find my voice and answer, “Yes.” Although it comes out sounding a little hoarse.
He lifts my arm up, examining it. And I can’t stop looking at his face. It’s like I no longer have control over my eyes.
“The scratch is too long to put a Band-Aid on,” he tells me. “So, you’ll have to leave it uncovered. I just wanted to get it cleaned up fast, make sure it
