I’m usually quite good at judging people, except I can’t even trust my own actions or feelings right now.
My eyes peer down to where our hands meet and my smile falls as all the blood drains from my body.
A scar.
Thescar.
The exact same bumpy scar crosses along the top of his hand forming a distinct checkmark from the base of his thumb all the way to his pinky finger.
Some people see scars and view them as a disfigurement. They’re unable to hide the disgust in their face when they see someone with flawed skin. But I love tracing the lines, inspecting each and every rope and divot. It’s like they all have their own personal story and whatever this one is, must have been pretty intense.
I tilt our palms as my eyes trail along the ridges of the marred skin, reconfirming my discovery then my eyes immediately bounce back up to his.
There’s a slight squint in his eyes as he returns a confused gaze and I realize he's suspicious of my reaction and not of me.
I impress myself for ignoring the reaction to immediately pull this man into my body and kiss the hell out of him. Instead, I’m going to play this so goddamn cool, like I didn’t just hit the fucking serendipity jackpot.
Impressing myself further by filtering my usually unfiltered responses, I bite my tongue and reply coolly with, “Awesome to meet you, man.”
“You too,” he replies as he drops my hand and I hate it. Instead, he runs that gorgeous hand through his hair and I salivate as I conjure up all the ways I want it to run over my body.
“American?” I ask, because he has no accent and I have an uncanny ability to pretty much guess where someone is from just based on their voice and fashion alone.
A side effect of being a nomad, I guess.
“Yeah, we started in Portugal, then Spain, now here,” he replies, using the word ‘we’ like he didn’t just jab me with a hot poker with his words.
“We?” I turn away to hide my expression and grab the T-shirt off my bed.
Wecan mean so many things. We, my friend. We, my mom. We, my brother.
“Oh hey,” he says, so I turn around but I realize immediately he was addressing another person.
Jesus, they’re both like stealthy little ninjas.
A jaw-dropping gorgeous woman steps up next to him. She’s only a couple inches shorter than him with luscious, dark chocolate brown hair and eyes the color of the Caribbean. As she turns my way, my eyes immediately flicker down to her neckline seeing a scar about twice as long as the one on Ethan’s hand. It crosses over her jawline and down the column of her throat, landing at the tip of her collarbone. It’s deep and bumpy, but she doesn’t try to cover it up.
“Hannah, this is Dane. Dane, this is my girlfriend, Hannah,” he introduces us as she quietly reaches out her hand with a smile that shines through those gorgeous ocean eyes.
My eyes flit between her and Ethan, then back down at the scar on his hand.
There’s no way thisisn’tthe same guy from the club. But, where was she tonight if he was at the club? The idea he left her wandering the streets of Paris alone bothers me. Did she know where he was?
A cargo train full of thoughts runs through my mind as I stare at his hand.
His fingers twitch, pulling me out of my trance. Avoiding his eye contact, I reach out my hand and clasp it in hers mirroring her smile.
“She’s nonverbal,” he adds, and my eyes flicker between the both of them again, then their scars and back to his face. “Shecan hear you, but you’ll want to try and ask close-ended questions to make it easier, or she can respond with her notes app or pad.”
I pause for a minute as I release her hand, taking in the information. Still curious as to where both of their scars came from and why he was at the club tonight.
It’s not my business.
I try to remind myself over and over again but I’m suddenly feeling pissed and really fucking irritated. Did he send her off somewhere so he can get his rocks off at a glory hole? Does he do that often? Is he a cheater?
My dad was a serial cheater and I hate what it did to my mother.
Okay, I’m jumping to conclusions. Maybe he didn’t cheat, maybe she knows. But…maybe…I shake my thoughts away. It doesn’t matter. It’s not my business.
