Page 19 of Dead Pretty

Unease slides down my spine, freezing my body up, at the same time my brain registers that Jack thinks I’m pretty.

The unease must show on my face though because the smile on his face disappears, and he’s quick to say, “Sorry, that was a bad pun.”

“Oh. Oh, okay. Right.” I fidget nervously. “Will Eleven be okay?”

“Yeah. She’ll be fine now. Not much fazes her.”

He backs up, walking out of his bedroom, and I follow him through to the living room.

And there, chilling on the sofa, is Eleven.

“Told you.” He smiles in the direction of his cat.

I look over at Eleven. “Sorry I scared you, cutie.”

“I thought I had shut the door,” Jack says to me, heading into the open-plan kitchen. “I must not have latched it properly.”

My legs stop in the living room, but my eyes follow him to the kitchen. “You didn’t lock it?” I ask, confused.

“No.” He shakes his head. “I just popped downstairs to see Mr. McCluskey.”

Mr. McCluskey is the live-in handyman in our apartment building.

There used to be a time when I would have left the door unlocked to pop downstairs. Back when I feared nothing because I didn’t know better.

Now, I fear everything, and I can’t even step out into the hall without locking up behind me.

“The shower has been acting up,” he continues, reaching into a cupboard and pulling out two mugs. “Can I get you a coffee? Tea?” He holds the mugs up.

“Oh. Erm …”

If I take a drink, then I’ll have to stay. Sit down. Make conversation. Talk about myself. He might ask questions …

“No, thank you. I should get back.” I’m already walking to the door.

“Oh. Okay. Sure.” He seems surprised by my answer.

Maybe he’s used to women wanting to stay around him. I would if I were still the old Audrey. I would have even had my flirt on the moment I met him. But not now.

I’m not even sure I know how to flirt anymore.

“Well, thanks for looking out for Eleven. Again,” he adds.

I pause by the now-closed door and glance over at him. He’s leaning against the kitchen countertop, facing me.

“It’s fine.” I tuck some stray hairs behind my ear.

“You’re bleeding.” Jack is already moving toward me, concern etched on his face.

“Huh?” I lower my arm, twisting it around, and see a big scratch down the outer side of my forearm, blood trickling from it.

Before I register what is actually happening, Jack takes ahold of my arm, cupping the elbow in his hand, his other hand curled around mine, and he guides me to the kitchen.

I try not to pay attention to how large his hand is, compared to mine. Or how it feels to have his skin touching mine.

Jack is touching me.

“I’m okay. Really.” I try to tug my arm free, but he keeps a firm but gentle hold of it.