“Abby!” Franklin shouts my name, and I crane my head back to see that he’s scrambling around his own stall to get to me. A throng of shocked tourists separate us, and he’s pushing his way through the small crowd.
“Abigail.” That deep, lilting cadence caresses my name. “Are you all right?”
“Dane?” I ask breathlessly, turning my face to search for the familiar voice.
Forest green eyes fill my world. They’re tight with concern, fine lines drawing deep at the corners. His brow is furrowed, and those lush lips are pinched with worry.
The strong hands that I’ve painted so many times reach for me. Just like at the café yesterday, they encircle my wrists in gentle shackles. This time, he tugs my hands close to his face so that he can inspect them. He scowls at the shallow pink scratches that mar my palms. They’re not deep enough to have drawn blood, even if they do sting a bit.
“I’m okay,” I promise shakily. “I’m not hurt.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” he counters sternly. “Stay still. I’m a doctor.”
My brain blanks for a few seconds, and I comply out of shock more than intentional cooperation. Dane is touching me again. It’s thrilling and surreal.
My heart hammers in my chest, and I’m not sure if the elevated beat is because of the encounter with the thief or because of the visceral physical reaction elicited by Dane’s nearness.
“Can you stand?” he asks, his tone low and gentle.
“Yeah.” My reply is still a touch shaky, but I try to summon up some semblance of dignity.
I tug my hands from his so that I can push myself onto my feet.
His scowl deepens, and he captures my upper arms, steadying me as I rise.
“I’ll call the cops.” Franklin is at my side, his ochre eyes flashing with anger on my behalf. He turns to the elderly man who smiled and nodded at me. “You’re a witness, right?”
The man’s nod is grim this time. “I saw everything.”
“It’s fine,” I say quickly.
I don’t want the cops involved. They’ll ask for my full, legal name. There will be paperwork. Possibly a small story in the news.
I suppress a shudder at the prospect of public exposure, the risk that my family might find out about this incident. I’ve learned to find joy in the small, quiet life I’ve built for myself, and I can’t bear the thought of their censure if they find out that I have a stall at the market rather than my own gallery.
“It wasn’t a lot of money,” I insist. “It’s not worth calling the cops.”
Franklin looks at me like I’m crazy. “That psycho hit you. I’m calling nine-one-one.”
“I just stumbled,” I counter quickly. “And I’m fine. Seriously, Franklin. Don’t.”
His eyes search mine, and his lips thin beneath his neat black moustache. He must see some of the panic churning inside me, because he nods after a tense moment.
“Okay. It’s your call, Abby.”
Dane’s eyes turn stormy. “I was walking through the market and saw you, so I decided to come say hello. I should’ve been here five minutes earlier.”
The protectiveness in that fierce statement makes something distinctly feminine swoon inside me, and I release a small sigh.
“How much did he take?” His voice rumbles with anger. On my behalf.
“I really am okay,” I promise. “Thank you for coming to check on me.”
His eyes remain fixed on mine, but he tilts his chin in the direction of my purse, which the thief discarded when he grabbed my cash and ran.
“How much did he take?” he repeats, and his deep tone demands an answer this time.
“Fifty dollars.” I’m compelled to reply. “It’s early. I’ll sell another painting to make up for the loss by the end of the day.”
