windshield, which he’d fully expected. There was also a tow truck turning the corner down the street. Why did he have a feeling that it was headed straight for his vehicle? McDougal bundled Natalie into the passenger side and vaulted into the driver’s seat. He fumbled the keys into the ignition. They peeled away with the tow truck less than fifteen yards back. At least something in this miserable day had gone right.
Natalie was a little bemused to be back in McDougal’s hotel room at the ritzy Waldorf, a place where she couldn’t even afford the drinks. And had she really only met Eric last night? It seemed impossible.
Then again, it seemed equally unreal that everything she owned had been overturned, slashed, destroyed. The furniture was replaceable. Her work was not.
A hard pulse of outrage, violation, and panic kicked up under her sternum. Her face flushed and her palms dampened as she thought about rough men invading her space, going through her private things, grunting with enjoyment as they kicked over plants she’d nurtured and ripped apart books she’d loved and shredded wall hangings that she’d created in the name of beauty.
She went into the elegant marble bathroom and stared at her face in the mirror, expecting a drastic change that reflected how she felt. But the same old Natalie gazed back, albeit one with circles under her eyes and a hunted look in them.
She turned on the taps at the sink full blast and splashed water onto her face until the heat receded, and her emotions with it. She commandeered Eric’s Aquafresh toothpaste tube, hoping the minty gel would take the bad taste out of her mouth.
Finally she emerged from the bathroom to find him sprawled shirtless on the bed, looking like the poster child for hedonism.
She just looked—and felt—bedraggled. He must have agreed with that assessment, because he eyed her with clear sympathy. “C’mere, sweetheart,” he said, patting the spot next to him.
She went because her mind was empty of any alternatives, and he was sexy and warm and she needed his body heat, his energy, and his arms around her. The arms of a stranger . . . It didn’t make sense.
But she went anyway and lay down next to him. He encircled her with his arms, and for the first time that day she felt safe. As if she could breathe normally again. Her world was still off its axis, but at least she could stop hyperventilating.
They lay there like that until she was drowsy, almost asleep. Then he said something odd. “Am I doing this right?”
She rolled to face him. “Doing what right?”
He seemed uncomfortable. “Never mind.”
“Doing what right, Eric?”
He fidgeted. “Uh . . . holding you?”
Was that an actual blush seeping around the freckles on his face?
“Because, well, it’s not really . . . my thing.”
She just blinked at him. “Your thing,” she repeated.
He actually squirmed. “You know. Holding women.”
Natalie bit her lip at his discomfort. “You’re doing fine,” she assured him. Then she rolled so that her back was to him again and made a wry face at the wall.
Emotionally handicapped, just like her father. And mother, for that matter—both of them related to books better than people.
Well, at least Eric was honest about it, unlike her last boyfriend. Nels, the liar, had told her that he was in a PhD program for physics—when all he did was work in the university library.
He was the latest in a long string of disappointments—men who didn’t remotely live up to her ideals. Still, she refused to give up. Somewhere out there was a hero with her name on his lips. Somewhere. But probably not here.
Yet Eric put his arms around her again, even though his body was stiff behind her.
She waited a minute or two, but he didn’t relax. This was sweet but almost comical. “Eric?”
“Hmm?”
“Are you going into rigor mortis?”
He chuckled weakly. “Wow, I really am bad at this.”
“No, but it’s clear that you’re outside
Natalie was a little bemused to be back in McDougal’s hotel room at the ritzy Waldorf, a place where she couldn’t even afford the drinks. And had she really only met Eric last night? It seemed impossible.
Then again, it seemed equally unreal that everything she owned had been overturned, slashed, destroyed. The furniture was replaceable. Her work was not.
A hard pulse of outrage, violation, and panic kicked up under her sternum. Her face flushed and her palms dampened as she thought about rough men invading her space, going through her private things, grunting with enjoyment as they kicked over plants she’d nurtured and ripped apart books she’d loved and shredded wall hangings that she’d created in the name of beauty.
She went into the elegant marble bathroom and stared at her face in the mirror, expecting a drastic change that reflected how she felt. But the same old Natalie gazed back, albeit one with circles under her eyes and a hunted look in them.
She turned on the taps at the sink full blast and splashed water onto her face until the heat receded, and her emotions with it. She commandeered Eric’s Aquafresh toothpaste tube, hoping the minty gel would take the bad taste out of her mouth.
Finally she emerged from the bathroom to find him sprawled shirtless on the bed, looking like the poster child for hedonism.
She just looked—and felt—bedraggled. He must have agreed with that assessment, because he eyed her with clear sympathy. “C’mere, sweetheart,” he said, patting the spot next to him.
She went because her mind was empty of any alternatives, and he was sexy and warm and she needed his body heat, his energy, and his arms around her. The arms of a stranger . . . It didn’t make sense.
But she went anyway and lay down next to him. He encircled her with his arms, and for the first time that day she felt safe. As if she could breathe normally again. Her world was still off its axis, but at least she could stop hyperventilating.
They lay there like that until she was drowsy, almost asleep. Then he said something odd. “Am I doing this right?”
She rolled to face him. “Doing what right?”
He seemed uncomfortable. “Never mind.”
“Doing what right, Eric?”
He fidgeted. “Uh . . . holding you?”
Was that an actual blush seeping around the freckles on his face?
“Because, well, it’s not really . . . my thing.”
She just blinked at him. “Your thing,” she repeated.
He actually squirmed. “You know. Holding women.”
Natalie bit her lip at his discomfort. “You’re doing fine,” she assured him. Then she rolled so that her back was to him again and made a wry face at the wall.
Emotionally handicapped, just like her father. And mother, for that matter—both of them related to books better than people.
Well, at least Eric was honest about it, unlike her last boyfriend. Nels, the liar, had told her that he was in a PhD program for physics—when all he did was work in the university library.
He was the latest in a long string of disappointments—men who didn’t remotely live up to her ideals. Still, she refused to give up. Somewhere out there was a hero with her name on his lips. Somewhere. But probably not here.
Yet Eric put his arms around her again, even though his body was stiff behind her.
She waited a minute or two, but he didn’t relax. This was sweet but almost comical. “Eric?”
“Hmm?”
“Are you going into rigor mortis?”
He chuckled weakly. “Wow, I really am bad at this.”
“No, but it’s clear that you’re outside
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