Herbruisedcheek.
Shit. What am I doing thinking about this poor woman this way?
And why am I notdoingsomething?
The waitress comes back over to the woman’s table, this time setting down a roll of silverware, a small plate, and a stack of white napkins. In the seconds that the red-haired woman—the color is like fire, really, bright crimson mixed with burnished bronze and streaks of shimmering gold—speaks to the waitress, I take a moment to collect my thoughts.
Stop staring at her, first of all.
Figure out a plan to help her.
I can’t exactly just call 911 and tell them Ithinka woman’s in danger.
I need to be sure.
It’s clear from the nonchalant demeanor of the waitress, she’s not going to be the one offering to help. Nor is the elderly man with his gaze glued to his newspaper. Or the owner, who’s a very nice man from what I remember, but is otherwise occupied.
And honestly, I want to be the one who helps her.
As I’m sitting here, contemplating the best approach, another thought strikes me.
What if the man who hurt her comes back?
What if he’s looking for her?
And if she’s sitting alone when he comes in… I’m close, but am I close enough to intervene? Possibly. But I’d rather not leave it to chance.
That decides it.
I’m going over there.
Pushing up from my chair, I cross the twenty or so feet between my table and hers. Conscious of my size in comparison to hers—at six-one and over two hundred pounds, I’m significantly larger than her—I try to make myself appear as unthreatening as possible. I hunch my shoulders a little. Avert my gaze so I’m not staring directly at her. Keep my hands by my sides, loose and open, making it obvious I’m not carrying a weapon.
By the time I’m halfway there, her attention is on me again.
Her eyebrows rise in question.
As I take the last few steps towards her, I pitch my voice low as I say, “Hi. I’m Dave. Would you mind if I talked to you for a second?”
Dark brown eyes meet mine, chocolate touched with a hint of honey. A tiny line forms between her brows. “What about?”
“Well—”
Crap. Close up, she’s even prettier than I realized.
Something I didn’t spot earlier are her adorable freckles—a delicate spray of them dusted across her nose and cheeks. A hintof a smile appears as she watches me, making a tiny dimple to the side of her mouth appear.
“Well,” I attempt for a second time, “this might sound presumptuous. Nosy, really. But I couldn’t help noticing—” I lift my chin, angling it in the direction of her cheek. “Are you okay? Do you need help?”
“Help?”
“I know you don’t know me,” I continue. “But I think I could help. If you’ll let me. I work as a firefighter in a town just north of New York City. And I’m the Fire Marshal. So I have a lot of connections with the police. If you’re in trouble, I could get you?—”
“Oh!” A quick laugh bursts out. “I’m not…” Trailing off, her expression softens. “I’m not in trouble. But I can see why you’d think that.”
My own brow furrows. “Are you sure?”
What I want to say but don’t is that I’ve heard women claim they weren’t in trouble before, only to find myself back at their house a week or month later, responding to yet another domestic violence assault.
