she could get
caught in a time vortex like in the
movies, where she could
sleep for days and days and then
wake up at the same
date she’d gone under, not having
been missed or
harassed by anyone who wanted
something from her.
Stil deep in that mode, it irritated her
intensely when, on
the afternoon of Day Two, there was
an insistent knocking
on her apartment door. She ignored it
at first, because she
didn’t have friends close enough to
visit her at home, and
the time of day ruled out any of her
working neighbors
being home and needing anything. So
al that left was the
rare door-to-door sales attempt in the
apartment complex,
and she for sure wasn’t dealing with
that today. However,
when it continued, became more
insistent, she stumbled
out of bed, swiping her hair out of
her face. Making her way
to the door through the living area
and kitchen, she peered
out the peephole.
Oh God. No way was she opening
the door to him, not
looking like this. And why the hel
was he here?
“Rachel.” No question in his tone. He
knew she was
there. “Open the door.”
“I…I have the flu, Jon. Whatever you
need, I’l help you
whenever I get back to class.” Which
was a ludicrous thing
to say, since he could hardly be here
for some mundane
reason. He shouldn’t know her
address or anything else
about her.
“You don’t have the flu. Open the
door. Now.”
He didn’t raise his voice. The words
were quiet, smooth,
yet there was that note in them she’d
never experienced in
such a targeted way. This was an
undeniable command,
and it shot through her chest, sending
an unusual tremor
through her limbs. Definitely not a
good idea to answer the
door.
Oh for God’s sake, she was a grown
woman. “Jon, I don’t
know what this is about, but it’s not
appropriate for you to
be—”
“It’s not appropriate for you to be
going to some sleazy
dive where you could get yourself
raped or worse. You’l
open this door right now, and I
wouldn’t suggest you make
me repeat myself again.”
Shock took over, fol owed by an
uncertain spurt of anger,
but it was enough to have her
unlatching the door and
pul ing it open, heedless of how she
might appear. “How
did you—”
When she opened the door, he was
standing almost in
the threshold. The recal ed violence
of nearly thirty-six hours
ago was enough to make her step
back with a startled cry,
her angry words caught in her throat.
A range of expressions crossed his
face. First, he
registered her fear. Then his gaze
covered the bruise on
her cheek, the swol en eye and lip.
The one brought a look
of gentle caution, the other a flash of
fury that he tamped
down with obvious effort.
He took two steps inside. She backed
up but gripped the
door, dizzy because of the shock of
seeing him, and
because she’d stumbled out of bed
with very little on her
stomach. Before she could evade
him, he slid an arm
around her back to hold her in place.
Then he bent to put
another under her knees and lifted her
off her feet.
Just like that. Like instead of a
woman who hadn’t
showered, who had oily, limp hair
and was wearing her
warmest, thickest flannel pajamas
that caught under her
heels and flapped over her wrists,
she was some fragile,
beautiful heroine with flowing hair
and silky lingerie. A
heroine who could trust him to carry
her to safety. She could
curl her arms around his shoulders,
which seemed broad
enough, his lean frame
notwithstanding, and bury her face
into his shoulder, reassured by his
male scent. And not just
any male. A male who would protect
a woman, who would
care for her, no matter what. Who
didn’t question or resent
that but considered it a duty, a
privilege and, beyond that, a
deep, abiding desire.
She was embarrassed that he was
seeing her smal
apartment like this. She usual y kept
it clean and cleansed,
a tranquil space for reading,
meditation,
caught in a time vortex like in the
movies, where she could
sleep for days and days and then
wake up at the same
date she’d gone under, not having
been missed or
harassed by anyone who wanted
something from her.
Stil deep in that mode, it irritated her
intensely when, on
the afternoon of Day Two, there was
an insistent knocking
on her apartment door. She ignored it
at first, because she
didn’t have friends close enough to
visit her at home, and
the time of day ruled out any of her
working neighbors
being home and needing anything. So
al that left was the
rare door-to-door sales attempt in the
apartment complex,
and she for sure wasn’t dealing with
that today. However,
when it continued, became more
insistent, she stumbled
out of bed, swiping her hair out of
her face. Making her way
to the door through the living area
and kitchen, she peered
out the peephole.
Oh God. No way was she opening
the door to him, not
looking like this. And why the hel
was he here?
“Rachel.” No question in his tone. He
knew she was
there. “Open the door.”
“I…I have the flu, Jon. Whatever you
need, I’l help you
whenever I get back to class.” Which
was a ludicrous thing
to say, since he could hardly be here
for some mundane
reason. He shouldn’t know her
address or anything else
about her.
“You don’t have the flu. Open the
door. Now.”
He didn’t raise his voice. The words
were quiet, smooth,
yet there was that note in them she’d
never experienced in
such a targeted way. This was an
undeniable command,
and it shot through her chest, sending
an unusual tremor
through her limbs. Definitely not a
good idea to answer the
door.
Oh for God’s sake, she was a grown
woman. “Jon, I don’t
know what this is about, but it’s not
appropriate for you to
be—”
“It’s not appropriate for you to be
going to some sleazy
dive where you could get yourself
raped or worse. You’l
open this door right now, and I
wouldn’t suggest you make
me repeat myself again.”
Shock took over, fol owed by an
uncertain spurt of anger,
but it was enough to have her
unlatching the door and
pul ing it open, heedless of how she
might appear. “How
did you—”
When she opened the door, he was
standing almost in
the threshold. The recal ed violence
of nearly thirty-six hours
ago was enough to make her step
back with a startled cry,
her angry words caught in her throat.
A range of expressions crossed his
face. First, he
registered her fear. Then his gaze
covered the bruise on
her cheek, the swol en eye and lip.
The one brought a look
of gentle caution, the other a flash of
fury that he tamped
down with obvious effort.
He took two steps inside. She backed
up but gripped the
door, dizzy because of the shock of
seeing him, and
because she’d stumbled out of bed
with very little on her
stomach. Before she could evade
him, he slid an arm
around her back to hold her in place.
Then he bent to put
another under her knees and lifted her
off her feet.
Just like that. Like instead of a
woman who hadn’t
showered, who had oily, limp hair
and was wearing her
warmest, thickest flannel pajamas
that caught under her
heels and flapped over her wrists,
she was some fragile,
beautiful heroine with flowing hair
and silky lingerie. A
heroine who could trust him to carry
her to safety. She could
curl her arms around his shoulders,
which seemed broad
enough, his lean frame
notwithstanding, and bury her face
into his shoulder, reassured by his
male scent. And not just
any male. A male who would protect
a woman, who would
care for her, no matter what. Who
didn’t question or resent
that but considered it a duty, a
privilege and, beyond that, a
deep, abiding desire.
She was embarrassed that he was
seeing her smal
apartment like this. She usual y kept
it clean and cleansed,
a tranquil space for reading,
meditation,
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