I don’t bother to tell him that my local family raised me to be highly formal as well.
I never talk about them. If I can avoid it, I try not to even think about them.
“You’re from England, right?” I ask instead, happy for the distraction from the churning in my gut.
He nods. “From York originally. The old York.”
“Oh,” I say, somewhat inanely. “What brought you to South Carolina?”
His smile turns a touch rueful. “You don’t have to make small talk with me, Abigail. How are you feeling?”
In this moment, I decide that I love the way he says my full name. I don’t want him to call me Abby. Despite the formality, it feels intimate; something I share only with him.
My heart gives a weak flutter, and the giddy reaction is so much sweeter than the shredding sensation that’s tormented me all morning. I try again to lift my lips at the corners, and this time, my facial muscles cooperate.
I smooth my apron and touch the unicorn pin like a talisman: a reminder of the whimsical, joyful energy I choose to embody in the new life I’ve established for myself in Charleston.
“Better, thanks,” I reply truthfully.
“Good.”
God, that smile. He’s always been too painfully perfect to look directly at him, but now that I’m caught in the full force of that cocky grin, I can’t tear my gaze away.
“Are you feeling well enough to go out to dinner with me tonight?”
“What?”
His hand is still on my shoulder, grounding me far more effectively than the therapeutic technique of focusing on my five senses. Despite the fact that I no longer feel like I’m going to be sick, my brain is still too scrambled to fully process the fact that he’s asking me out.
For months, it’s felt safe to fantasize about him because he’s too gorgeous and refined to ever consider as a real possibility. He’s an untouchable prince, but I’ve crafted my secret rakish villain to wear his face when I’m alone in my bed. This invitation for a date seems impossible.
Not to mention, he’s a customer, and I shouldn’t date customers.
“You heard me,” he admonishes, but his voice lilts with arrogant amusement. “Have dinner with me.”
His grip on my shoulder tightens ever so slightly.
Gloved hands on my body, roughly groping and exploring my curves as though he has every right. A cloying scent of cheap amber aftershave makes the air sickeningly thick, so that it clogs in my constricted throat. That awful skull leers at me as he takes what he wants…
I jerk away from Dane, wrenching free from his hold. My stomach hollows out at the loss even as I gasp in a breath of humid air.
His allure is messing with my head when I need to hold the shattered fragments of my soul together in the wake of the attack.
No one knows what happened to me last night. I barely speak to my family anymore, and my friends don’t need to know my shame.
There’s no point calling the cops when the masked invader made me orgasm. Some part of me got off on it. The dark pleasure had cut deeper than the knife that’d threatened me.
I’m too fucked up, too broken, to be with a charming man like Dane.
“I can’t,” I blurt out. “I’m sorry.”
He calls after me, but I spin on my heel and duck back into the café to finish my shift.
I act as though this is a normal day, and I manage to lose myself in rote, mundane tasks. Tonight, I’ll get drunk with Franklin so that I won’t be tempted to paint.
Because if I pick up a brush, I know the erotic horror that will spill out onto my canvas.
6
