by Lacey Alpha
“I like the rain,” I mutter, stealing a glance at her. Her eyes are wide and full of intrigue, water droplets collecting in her eyelashes. A burning sensation grows in my chest the longer I look at those eyes.
She wants to know about the man that saved her. But she's seeing me through rose-tinted glasses. I'm no hero. This is all wrong.
“Me too,” she agrees. “Although, I usually prefer listening to it than being out in it.”
I nod stiffly and she encourages me under the shelter of her porch.
“This is me,” she says, hugging her arms around her body as she ascends the stone steps.
I take a step back, gazing up at her, barely able to believe she's here in front of me.
“Right. See you.”
I move to leave but she gives me a hopeful expression that halts me in my tracks.
“Can I have your number? You know...to say thanks. Maybe I could buy you a coffee?”
“You don't need to thank me.” I shake my head stiffly, stepping away, fighting my urges.
“I'd like to, though.” She drops back down a step, her eyes burning through me, full of light, torturing my soul with how familiar they are to me.
She's clearly not going to let this go.
I could give her a fake number, to get her off my back.
Making the decision, I take a small step closer, dropping my eyes from hers to get some reprieve.
She takes out her phone, breaking into a heavenly smile. It's the sort of smile that could brighten anyone's mood. But it doesn't brighten mine. Because I am in deep shit here.
“Put your number in and I'll drop-call you to give you mine,” she says, passing me her iPhone.
What now, dickshit?
Real number it is, then. I tap it in under my name, passing it back to her, shell-shocked.
She presses call and my phone sounds from my pocket, the melancholy tones of Arsonist's Lullaby by Hozier thrumming through the air.
Oh hell. I don't even know how I set the fucking ringtone. I'd forgotten all about it until now. I don't exactly receive many calls.
Her eyebrows raise. “Bit of a moody ringtone.”
“Yeah.” I run a hand down the back of my neck, feeling awkward as fuck.
“I really can't thank you enough.” She reaches for my hand, her fingers running over my damp skin.
I'm frozen by her warm touch, my throat dry as bone, my heart cliff-diving in my chest.
“It's fine. Forget it.” I move away. “Just...be careful.”
She nods and I'm quite terrified when she blushes.
That's not good.
“Goodnight, Ethan.”
I turn on my heel, hurrying away, quickening my pace to a jog, then a run, then a flat-out sprint.
I'm heaving by the time I arrive home, bile rolling up my throat.
Now what are you going to do, prick?
ANNALISE
Am I high on adrenaline or was that the hottest guy I've ever seen in my life?
I stand on the porch, watching him go for a full ten seconds. My stomach spins wildly, my heart in my throat.
That is what I've been looking for. That feeling.
I wander inside, floating vaguely up the three floors to my flat.
Oh lord. That guy. He had the face of an angel. His jaw alone could cut through butter like a hot knife.
Despite the freezing water clinging to my body, I'm flustered beyond belief.
Shit. I almost got mugged. That is definitely the more pressing issue here. Not Mister Superhero and his nice jawline.
I blink out of my stupor. Maybe it is the adrenaline. And the fact that I've been spending every evening in with a romantic film all week.
Yes. That's what it is: me looking for the romance story. The fairytale.
As I grab a glass of milk from the fridge, I find myself playing out a scenario in my mind. Me calling Ethan, him agreeing to meet me for a coffee. He asks me out on date after perfect date before we fall in love...later telling the story of how we met. He saved my life! I'd laugh, leaning into him. And he'd put a muscular arm around me, stroking my spine, She's trouble, this one.
I swill the milk in my mouth, frowning at myself.
Right. No more romance films. I'm going insane.
Taking out my phone, I huff as I think about calling the police. I have no description to give, whoever it was didn't actually rob anything and I'm tired as hell.
Shrugging, I tuck my phone into my pocket, heading to the bathroom to shower. And definitely not to think about my sexy saviour under the hot stream of water...
⊱✿ ✿⊰
I'm not going to text him. Definitely not.
He didn't even want to give me his number. And I don't need the rejection.
I brush my hair in the bathroom mirror, trying to fluff it up. It always lies so flat. I release a breath, eyeing my phone on the edge of the sink.
Despite my reservations, I still want to believe in fate and romance and the kind of passion that burns like hellfire.
Is it fate that Ethan saved me last night?
I know what my dad would say, he's said it a hundred times.
'Fate can come knocking, darling, but only you can answer the door.'
By that reasoning, I should text Ethan. You don't get lemonade without squeezing some lemons...
I tap out a quick text, figuring the quicker I do it, the less time I'm giving myself to back out of it.
I press send with a little squeak- half fear, half excitement.
Hey, I'd like to buy you that coffee.
Annalise
I don't remember the last time I felt excited over a guy, that's why I know I have to put myself on the line for this one. But I didn't expect the nerves I'd feel over something so trivial as a text.
After an hour of pretending to ignore my phone, it buzzes.
I dive for it on the sofa, finding my mum trying to Facetime me. My stomach sinks.
She and Dad bought a yacht last summer; they've sailed as a hobby for years but finally took the plunge and purchased their own vessel. They've been cruising around the world ever since, currently off the shore of Italy.
I answer, feeing a touch guilty for not having wanted to find her calling. “Hi Mum.”
Her face springs into view, a red scarf concealing her blonde locks. “Annalise! How are you?” She doesn't wait for me to answer, ploughing on, “We're in southern Sardinia. Oh darling, you'd love it. Just your scene. And lots of strapping men about – wealthy-looking too. No doubt one of them would catch your interest.”
Wow. Five seconds before hinting at my singledom, that's got to be a new record.
“How's Dad?” I ask, searching for him in the background.
Mum angles the camera, showing him at the helm, beer in hand. He's topless, his large stomach round and tanned, his silver hair ruffled by the wind. He looks happy, both of them do. I smile genuinely, waving.
“He insists on drinking beer daily, even though I've warned him what it will do to his gut.”
“He's enjoying himself,” I laugh.
Mum rolls her bright blue eyes. I'm unlike her in looks. I have my grandma's hair, my dad's mum. There's a photograph of her around my age at an anti-bra rally in the sixties. I adore that photo, she looks wild and free. She even had the same fringe I have now. Maybe I cut it this way on purpose, subconsciously. I've never considered that before.
“How's the job hunting going? Have you given up on all that mind-reading mumbo jumbo yet?”
I scowl. She always brings this up. “My psychology degree is not mumbo jumbo, Mum. And I actually have an interview for a training position as a therapist this week.”
“Great darling, great.” She's not really listening, her eyes roaming over my hair.
I run a hand through it with a frown, knowing she's looking for flaws.
“Anyway, darling. Better go. I'll send your love to your father. Kisses.” She pats her lips and the feed goes dead.
I'm left w
ith a heavy weight hanging from my heart. Nothing like a pep talk from Mum- not.
The weight releases in a wave as I find a message waiting for me from Ethan.
Costas. 4pm?
A grin tugs at my lips. I send a quick confirmation, checking the time. I've got an hour.
I move to the bathroom, eyeing my hair, tugging at the longer pieces of my fringe that frame my cheeks. I can never get it to sit any differently. I was starting to get used to it, now a quick glance from my mother and I'm feeling self-conscious again.
Fuck it. I'm not going to let her affect me like that.
The hairdresser took way too much off the bottom. It's starting to grow out again, how I like it. Damn scissor-happy people. When you say an inch, they take a mile.
ETHAN
Shit. What have I done?
I agreed to meet Annalise. I couldn't resist. She's been in my head ever since I saw her. Fuck, who am I kidding? She's been in my head for months, and now she actually wants to see me.
I dress in a shirt and jeans, grabbing my leather jacket and heading out the door at ten minutes to four.
I'm nervous as hell as I walk to the cafe, my heart nearly strangling me.
I definitely shouldn't be doing this.
I arrive at the cafe before she does, taking in the crowded space and winding my way toward a booth by the window. I sit, glancing anxiously at the entrance, my pulse racing.
When she steps through the door, I feel compelled to stand.
Fucking idiot.
I run a hand through my hair, nodding to her and dropping back into my seat, my neck heating up.
She's stunning in a charcoal grey winter dress, seeming nervous as she approaches, taking her time, weaving through the tables.
She drops into the booth, flashing me a brief smile. “Hi.”
“Hi,” I echo, leaning back in my seat, my arms rigid as I rest my wrists on the table.
“So...coffee?” She reaches for the menu.
I nod, watching as she picks it up, running her finger down the list.
I expect she'll pick tea.
“I'm more of a tea girl.” She glances at me and I nod, my throat dry.
Freak.
She passes me the menu and her fingers graze mine, sending a rush of heat through me. She runs her thumbs over the tips where mine touched. Did she feel it too?
A waitress arrives and I turn to her. “A tea, and a water.”
“Tap or bottle?” she asks.
“Tap,” I say.
Maybe I should have got a bottle. I'm not trying to be a cheapskate, I have more than enough money for whatever drink I want. But caffeine is a no-go for my anxiety.
The waitress heads away, leaving us in silence.
“Just a water?” Annalise questions after a minute, her eyes assessing. I find it difficult to look at them, my heart licked by flames at the sight.
I shrug.
She frowns and I shift in my seat, trying to think of an explanation. The truth. The bloody truth is all I have.
“I don't drink caffeine.”
“Oh.” She nods, her eyes dropping to my mouth. “Why?”
I clear my throat, shifting again. “I have some...anxiety issues.”
Her eyes widen and I take in their golden amber colour, frightened and drawn to them at once.
“Well...good choice picking tap.”
“Huh?”
“Tap water...bottled water...” Her cheeks redden. “It's all the same.”
I gaze at her, taking in the curve of her slim jaw. “Right.”
“Right.” She drums her fingers on the table.
Shit. How does this work? I haven't been on a date in...fuck, I don't remember.
This isn't a date, this is you being a creep.
“So...what do you do for work?” she asks, taking in my clothes as if they might hold the answer.
“I don't work.” I realise my admission makes me sound like a complete waste of space.
That's exactly what you are.
She gazes at me, waiting for me to elaborate. I don't have anything more to offer so simply remain silent.
“What do you do?” I ask, despite knowing the answer.
“I'm a psychologist. I applied for a trainee position as a therapist.”
I didn't know she'd applied for a position. And shit, it would be me that picks the fucking therapist-in-training to stalk. Is she psychoanalysing me right now? Like Clarissa?
I don't feel like I do with Clarissa, under scrutiny, more a gentle curiosity. And that's not necessarily anything to do with her being a psychologist. She asked me here, so she probably gives a shit about my life. The thought is both humbling and terrifying. I shouldn't be here at all, let alone giving her details about who I am.
“That sounds interesting,” I remark stiffly.
This is a fucking train wreck.
“I guess...I just really hope I get it. I've worked my whole life for this chance.” She bites her lip, passion blazing in her expression.
“You'll get it,” I say without a doubt, dropping my eyes from hers again. They're so fucking painful to look at, like someone's driving a corkscrew into my heart.
“You think?” she asks in surprise.
I shrug. “You obviously want it enough.”
I look up to find her smiling, her lips the softest of pinks. It breaks me in half and I'm suddenly ten years younger, the weight from my shoulders lifting. A smile tugs at my lips – an actual fucking smile. For a heartbeat, I'm saved, in bliss, doing something as simple as sitting across from a girl I like.
But that's not what's really happening. I've coveted her for months. I'm a pathetic creep who lurks in the shadows, hounding a girl who I have no right to be interested in.
I remember the first time I saw her. She was sitting in a coffee shop two blocks from here, typing on her laptop. I was captivated and petrified at once. She awoke something in me that day, something dangerous and untamed. I watched her for hours until she finally left and I just...followed.
The waitress arrives with our drinks, jolting me back to reality.
She places them down. “Want something with your water?” Her voice is laced with amusement at me.
I turn to her, lifting a brow. “Another earful of sarcasm would be great.”
Annalise laughs, the light, merry sound making my chest expand. The waitress scowls at me and heads away.
“So you don't work but you're...looking?” She lifts a brow, her body language at ease.
My body responds to hers, my shoulders dropping. “I don't know what I want to do. I used to be in the army...I'm not sure what else I'm good at,” I admit.
She tilts her head to the side and her hair dark slides over her shoulder. “A soldier? That makes a lot of sense.”
I suck the inside of my cheek, unsure what she means. “Does it?”
“Yeah, you're all-” she waves at me. “Formal. Plus, you took on that thief yesterday which not everyone would have done.”
“I guess.” I shrug.
She smiles at me, looking intrigued, her mouth slightly open so I can just see the tops of her milky white teeth.
“Are you using your psychology skills on me?” I ask, trying to keep the tone light. It's easier now.
She grins mischievously. “Ever since I got my degree, everyone thinks I'm using Jedi mind tricks on them.”
A grin pulls at my cheeks; it's like she's holding the strings to the sinews in my muscles.
“And are you?”
She rolls her eyes but continues to smile. “No. I'm not a mind reader.”
Thank god. Or she would not still be sitting here.
I lean a little closer, drawn in, resting my elbows on the edge of the table. “How does it work, then?”
She leans in too, mimicking me. “I learnt techniques to understand the mind better, that's all. Therapy is just one string of psychology and there's many types of therapist you can be.”
“What type do you want t
o be?” I'm mesmerised by her mouth, her soft, lulling voice.
“I'd like to specialise in cognitive behavioural therapy, helping people work through problems like depression, grief, post-traumatic stress disorder. That kind of thing.”
I nod slowly, absorbing each of her words. That's the same focus as Clarissa, I think.
“Interesting,” I say, tasting my lips as I eye hers. A dangerous image flickers into my mind of me kissing her, burying my tongue in her mouth.
She blinks several times, taking a sip of her tea and diverting her eyes to it. Her eyelashes cast a shadow beneath her lids, dancing on her skin. Her hands are delicate on the mug, cupping it between both palms. I wonder if she's cold. I long to trace my thumb over her palms, to feel them against my skin.
“So you don't work...do you have any hobbies?” she questions and I hunch my shoulders, giving her an apologetic look.
“Not really.”
“Nothing? What do you do with all your time?”
“Well...I work out.” With a jolt, I think of my journal. “And, I write.”
Her eyebrows lift and she leans in an inch. “What do you write about?” Her voice is a whisper, full of curiosity.
I glance away, shifting awkwardly. Hell, if she knew what I really wrote about, she'd run a hundred miles from me. “It's just a journal.”
She tilts her head to one side. “A journal? About your day...that you spend doing nothing?”
She's joking but I don't smile, feeling uncomfortable.
“It's for my thoughts.” My crazy fucking thoughts.
“Oh,” she says softly, seeming apologetic. “Are you a deep thinker?”
I let out a snort. Deep thinker? That's not quite the term I'd use. But I probably spend more time in my own head than I do with other people. “Yeah, you could say that.”
“I'd love to see what you write...” She drops her eyes to her tea, looking thoughtful.
She'd be calling the police in a heartbeat if she did.
I remain silent, studying her, transfixed. “What films do you like?” I ask, thinking of the times I've observed her, sobbing over whatever she's watching, broken apart by it.
What moves this beautiful woman to tears? What makes her ache?
