Instinct demands I spring to my feet and rush over to offer my assistance. Ask who hurt her. Find out where else she’s injured. Do anything to make sure she’s safe.
But.
If she’s in trouble, which she no doubt is, she might be frightened if a strange man approaches her.
So I need to consider another option. Starting with not freaking her out by blatantly staring at her.
Dropping my gaze back to my plate, I inspect my tomato pie with the intensity of a surgeon while trying to forcibly unclench my jaw. I take long, slow breaths to ease the anger bubbling up inside me.
Violence against women is one thing I won’t tolerate. Ever. And if this woman is in danger, if she’s come here to find safety, how can Inotoffer to help?
As I pick at my food with my fork, I keep stealing quick glances at her, assessing.
The waitress heads over to the woman’s table, taking her order without even looking at her. There’s no shared glance between them, perhaps a silent request for help, or even the slightest expression of concern.
Once the red-haired woman gets her drink—water, it looks like—she takes a long sip of it before sagging back against her chair. A beat later, she pulls out her phone and taps away at it for a few seconds before slipping it back into her purse.
Her gaze wanders around the restaurant again, lingering on one of the paintings. In it, a little cottage sits at the base of a range of mountains that I recognize as part of the Dolomites. Her lips curve up as she looks at it, and I can practically feel her longing from here.
Looking at the picture, I can understand. There’s something peaceful about it, despite the almost intimidating magnificence of the snow-tipped peaks. It makes me think about my own long-term plans of finding a house in the country with acres of land and privacy.
As I surreptitiously watch her—I don’t want to get busted again—something unusual strikes me.
She doesn’t look scared. Or even upset.
Which doesn’t make any sense.
Unless…
Is she so used to being hurt that it doesn’t phase her anymore?
Shit.
My molars nearly grind to dust at the thought.
My muscles twitch, desperate to move.
The woman glances my way again, this time casting a tiny smile in my direction.
Unexpectedly, my heart rolls over.
It’s the craziest feeling. And the most inexplicable.
I haven’t even spoken to her. Haven’t seen her close-up. She’s a stranger to me, and one in trouble, at that.
Yes, she’s attractive.
More than attractive. Beautiful, really.
But I’ve seen plenty of beautiful women and never had this sort of reaction. With my ex, Jane, it was a gradual shift from friendship to a relationship. During college and in my hookups after, the connection was built off lust and desire for temporary companionship.
I’ve never felt this instinctive draw to another woman before.
If I met her at the Hop-less Horseman, my favorite pub back in Sleepy Hollow, maybe I’d even ask her out. Or at the very least, offer to buy her a drink. Talk to her. See if this strange sort of magnetic pull is something real, or all in my head.
But I’m not home, and these aren’t normal circumstances.
A fact that’s slammed home as I watch the woman brush her fingers across her cheek, wincing as she does it.
