Lost in You. Sommer Marsden
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at the building so fiercely we heard the huge old structure creak. ‘Let’s finish this so we don’t end up living here,’ he said.
‘Right.’
Just a few more minutes together. We checked the dome to see that all the industrial work lights were off and then looked at the last exit door to make sure it was bolted and secure.
‘Done!’ I said. His eyes were darker in this light, the green less noticeable, his expression unreadable as he studied me again. Had I done something?
‘Good. I’ll walk you back. Make sure you get on the road safely.’
Safe. How long since anyone besides my grandmother had fretted over my safety? To be honest – brutally so – with myself, I couldn’t remember the last time a man had bothered himself with my safety. Of course, in their defence, it had been years since I’d done anything but casual dating. And you cannot expect a man whom you see once every six weeks or so to fret over your safety.
‘Thanks. I appreciate it.’ My voice did a new and interesting weird thing at the end. I sounded almost like I was about to cry.
Dorian Martin caught it, gave me a quick second glance but then covered with a smile.
Great, not just handsome and kind, but intuitive too. I’d have to remember to keep my big fat mouth shut until I was in my car. Then I could freak out.
* * *
‘I think –’ Outside, the wind ripped my voice away. My skirt was lifted by a stiff blast of wind and the rain suddenly changed direction, dousing me in an instant.
White blouse.
But Dorian didn’t seem to notice because a decorative bench was slowly being blown across the brickwork of the patio. ‘We might have waited too long,’ he yelled.
Another blast of wind and rain and I screamed when more cold water smacked me. I felt like a fool but couldn’t help it.
I had to be positive. This was just a storm. No big deal. Surely the weather people were exaggerating. They had to talk about something, right? ‘Oh, I’m sure we’ll be fi –’
With that, the second biggest oak on the property gave a mighty groan. We’d had rain all week already and the ground was soaked. The wind and added rain had taxed the poor thing to its limits. With another gust and another fierce moan it seemed to surrender and down it went, as if in slow motion.
‘I think we won’t, Clover,’ he shouted, taking my hand.
I’d imagined him doing it, but the reality of his big warm hand curling around mine was extraordinary. Even given the bizarre and frightening circumstances, something in me woke up when he touched me.
And then: ‘Come on, Clover. We need to get inside. Fast.’
I hurried in after him, sliding the last foot or so on the wet tile, my carefully chosen outfit now stuck to me. I dressed to say, ‘I’m in charge,’ I dressed to say, ‘Responsible.’ Now my ensemble just said, ‘Drowned rat.’
The automatic doors slid closed and to add insult to injury the lights flickered and failed. For a few heartbeats there was nothing but total silence.
Then my teeth started to chatter.
He didn’t have a coat to offer me. He seemed the kind of guy who would if he had one to give. When he gripped the hem of his fisherman’s knit sweater and pulled it up, suddenly exposing a flat, taut belly, I found myself holding my breath. Then he got the sweater up further and I saw a blue T-shirt beneath it.
‘Here, let’s get this on you. A bit damp but not nearly as damp as you are.’ He tugged the cream-coloured sweater over his head and I let myself ogle him for the instant that his head was totally covered.
His body was lean and firm. He obviously worked out or kept in shape somehow, but wasn’t obsessive about it. I had a fleeting vision of him unbuttoning his well-worn jeans and shut my eyes tight like I was wishing away a monster in the dark. Not appropriate. Not by a long shot. A rich, handsome, nice guy like this obviously would have a female following of epic proportions. He probably had a girlfriend designated for every night of the week. A few for weekends just to keep things interesting.
He handed me the sweater and I stared at it like a dolt. Outside something struck the mall doors and I jumped. My grandmother was alone. Aunt Brani lived next door. She really wasn’t my aunt, she’d just been my grandmother’s friend for over three decades. Surely if I was stuck here she would check in on grandma. She would –
‘… so wet. I can turn my back.’
I blinked at him, the panic that had gripped me letting up just a tiny bit as I saw the concern in his eyes.
‘What?’
‘I said, it probably won’t help to put it on over clothes that are already so wet. I can turn my back.’ He nodded to indicate the sweater I still held dumbly.
‘Oh! Right. Thank you. You really don’t have to.’ I tried to hand it back. He laughed at me.
‘Clover, I hate to break the news to you but your teeth are chattering so hard and loud they’re rivalling a marching band.’
I glanced down at my drenched white blouse. The dove-grey silk camisole beneath it was pretty much visible now, it was so wet. And nipples. Dear Lord, they were so hard and pointed they tented my blouse in a very unprofessional way. As if I could do anything about them. It was something my mother had always said: nature is what she is. No changing her. In the rules of nature, it was cold so my nipples were hard.
I laughed somewhat hysterically at my mental tangent and looked up to find him watching me as I studied my own traitorous chest.
‘Will you?’ I said. My voice sounded shy and awkward. Yet another thing to be mortified about.
He smiled once more and said, ‘Of course.’ Then he turned his back to me and I turned mine to him.
My fingers didn’t want to work the tiny white buttons of my blouse. Cold and wet from our foray outside, brief though it was, they stumbled over the small plastic discs. After only two, I gave up and yanked the blouse over my head. I shivered as the cold seeped into my bones. Something else banged and I let out a little cry. Embarrassing as it was, the sudden intensity of the storm frightened me. Having had a childhood that involved a particularly rattling event, I was on edge in any situation where I felt I was not in control. Loud noises made it worse. All those memories and sensations tried to swell up in me and I quickly tamped them down.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw him turn and glance at me, obviously concerned about the noise I’d made, then he caught himself – probably upon seeing me in nothing but a soaking wet camisole. ‘Jesus, sorry,’ he said. ‘I just –’
‘It’s OK,’ I said, biting my tongue to try and keep my teeth from rattling. ‘It’s OK,’ I repeated and yanked the sopping wet cami off over my head. My hair probably looked like the Bride of Frankenstein but now was not the time for vanity.
My nipples pebbled harder and my breasts followed suit by rushing with goose bumps. Another deep shiver worked through me and finally I managed to tug his huge warm sweater down over my damp skin. I let out an audible sigh.
‘I’m done,’ I said. ‘Thank you. You can turn around.’
When I turned to look at him he was staring at the small pile of my wet clothes, the cami conspicuously on top. He ran a hand through his hair and chuckled. ‘Yeah. Let’s get you some clothes, Clover,’ he said.
‘I have … you gave me this,’ I finished weakly as another series of shivers racked my body.
‘But your skirt is wet …’ He swallowed,