I try to sound breezy, but the declaration comes out closer to please-don’t-notice-my-pajamas.
While he doesn’t respond, I can sense him engaging in a silent battle with himself.
My heart thuds.
Close the door, Chloe. Just close the door.
A tiny beat of stubbornness rises up. Who does he think he is, standing on my stoop, staring at me like that? Kindergarten teachers specialize in weaponized patience. I can outwait the worst tantrums and meltdowns.
He’s just a man. A sexy, disturbing,I can’t tell if he wants to hurt me or screwme kind of man, but still. I wrangle two dozen five-year-olds on a daily basis. I can handle one man.
He gives a tiny nod and steps back.
My shoulders slump with a mixture of relief and disappointment.
He spins and retreats down the path.
Stops. Shifts not toward me but my driveway, where my little car huddles under a dim light. “Is your tire supposed to look like that?”
“Like what?” Crap. Is that the real reason tonight felt like driving a tin can?
“Your front tire is flat.”
I unchain the door and venture outside. “Seriously?” The sad, droopy front tire is indeed smushed into the concrete. Not completely flat, but not full either. I crouch down and poke ineffectually at the rubber. “This sucks.”
He squats beside me. “I can fix it in the morning.”
At the end of the road, a dark sedan slides to a halt, the rumble of the engine echoing down the empty street. The vehicle idles. No one gets in or out. The occupants simply wait.
Like those boys before they tried to steal my purse.
The hair at the back of my neck prickles.
Kolya notices the sedan, too, and his body goes rigid.
He works in security, I remind myself. That’s why he’s on alert, his hand drifting toward the inside of his jacket. That’s also why his other arm is shifting slightly in front of me to create a barrier between my body and whatever threat he perceives.
He breathes out a suggestion. “Let’s go inside.”
I don’t argue. His tone bypasses all my defenses, tapping directly into that primal part of my brain that recognizes danger.
Nerves jangling, I scurry toward the porch and open my front door.
I enter on unsteady legs, and he follows. That’s when realization strikes.
Kolya’s inside. My house. With me.
As the door clicks shut behind us, I’m acutely aware of how small my place is. How Kolya’s presence seems to shrink the walls further, his broad shoulders and tall frame dwarfing my cozy furniture. Instead of relaxing, he strides to the window and peers through the curtains at the street outside.
“Is that car still there?” I scrunch up my toes, suddenly chilly despite the warm night.
“Yes.”
The single word lands with the weight of a stone, heavy with implications I don’t understand. What Idounderstand is that Kolya is in my living room, looking at the dark sedan that materialized at the same time as my sudden flat.
Changing a tire at night would’ve put me at a serious disadvantage if someone snuck up behind me.
Cold slithers over my skin.
