3. I'm sorry you got hurt

“No, Isaac. I don’t think she knows who I am. She did it out of kindness.”

That deep voice made me regain consciousness. I blinked slowly, only to discover that I was in an unfamiliar room dominated by gray and white. 

“No. I destroyed the CCTV and kept my gloves on.”

I spotted a guy standing with his back to me. He was in jeans paired with a white shirt, its sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Even from here, I could see his toned arms and broad shoulders. Trying to pick up more of his conversation, I stayed as still as possible, ignoring the stinging pain in my shoulder. A thick blanket was tucked up to my neck, and while I was dying to toss it aside, I didn’t want Mr. Handsome over there to realize I was awake. 

“Let’s just say I’ll be unlucky if it comes to that. You know I always slip past the cops.”

Wait—what? Cops? What’s he talking about? Oh no, what if I’m caught up in this? This is a literal nightmare. And what did he just say? “Always slip past the cops”? Does he have a history? 

“I’m serious, Isaac. There’s nothing to worry about.”

I tried to look at him again. And for whatever reason, I was really surprised to find that the handsome man was staring at me. Don't tell me that he knew that I was listening to his conversation. 

“I’ll call you later,” he said, hanging up his phone and walking toward me.

Oh my God, he’s coming over. I never thought I’d end up this close to him—let alone in his room. He stopped so close that I could see every detail of his jawline. “Do you need anything? Water?”

“N-no.” Damn, I stammered. 

“I couldn’t take you to the hospital, so I patched you up myself.” He pulled out a chair and sat by the bed. 

“I’m already feeling better. Thank you,” I said, trying to sound calm, even though my nerves were all over the place.

I shifted to sit up, and the blanket slipped down, revealing that I wasn’t wearing my flannel shirt anymore—just the tank top underneath.

“I should be the one thanking you,” he said. “Oh, by the way, I took off your shirt. Didn’t do anything except treat the wound.”

“What? Oh, uh, yeah, no problem.” I glanced at my shoulder, wincing at the sight of the bandage. “Why did you bring me here?”

“Because I owe you my life. Seriously, I’ll pay it back. Just tell me what you want.” 

I want to be close to you. “No need,” I replied quietly. 

“Alright. But if you ever need anything, let me know. I owe you big time,” he said with a faint smile. It wasn’t hard to feel that this wouldn’t be our last meeting. At least, I hoped it wasn’t. Maybe we’d bump into each other again somewhere—a café, the mall, or... wherever.

That’s when I remembered my bag and laptop, which I’d left at the café. Of course, I did. He must’ve carried me straight out of there. Oh God. Oh my god ... “Kim!”

“Hey, what’s wrong?” He looked genuinely puzzled as I tried to stand up.

“I need to get back.” But then I stopped mid-motion, looking at him. His brow furrowed. “All my future is in my bag.”

“Where are you staying?”

“Hyatt Regency Hotel.”

“I’ll take you there.” He grabbed a gray cardigan hanging by the wardrobe and draped it over my shoulders. “This belongs to a friend of mine. She won’t mind if you borrow it.”

She. Of course, he had a female friend who leaves clothes in his room. What did you expect, Corbin? A guy like him not having someone? My subconscious mocked me, probably smirking while doing so. 

He put on a black coat—again—before guiding me out of his room. The house was quiet, minimalist, and painted in shades of gray that only added to its mysterious vibe.

“You live alone?” I asked once we were in his car.

There was a pause, long enough for me to count his breaths. “Yeah.”

For some reason, I got the feeling he wasn’t comfortable with questions like that. I fiddled with my fingers, debating whether to bring up what happened in the café—or the elevator. I kept glancing at him, wanting to ask,, but I immediately canceled it. 

“You got something to say?” he suddenly asked, eyes still on the road.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Go ahead.”

Taking a deep breath, I turned to him. “Do you remember meeting me before the café?”

He glanced at me for a moment before answering, “No. Maybe you’ve got the wrong guy.”

“You sure?” I pressed.

“Where do you think we met?”

“Forget it,” I muttered. “I guess I was mistaken.” But deep down, I was sure it was him who kissed me. His black coat, the Terre d’Hermes cologne, his dark brown hair, and those intense eyes—it all lined up.

He didn’t remember me. Or maybe he was pretending not to. Either way, I couldn’t shake the feeling there was more to this.

He didn't remember me. But ... how could he? The incident had just happened and not a day had passed. Even the clothes I was wearing at that time were still the same as the ones I wore at the café. The assumption that I had misrecognized someone had been added to the black list. The other possibility was that he didn't remember or pretended not to remember. I didn't even have a good guess as to why he kissed me earlier. And yes, his thank-you note that was still ringing in my ears made it seem as if when he kissed me, I had saved him--who knows from what. 

“Are you okay?”

I was startled softly when he asked so suddenly. I looked at him who was looking at me with a furrowed brow. “N-no, I mean yeah, I'm fine.”

“Are you in a lot of pain? I'm sorry you got hurt.” This young man said with regret, he said, sounding genuinely regretful. “I really owe you.”

“I’m fine,” I replied softly.

“Just tell me what you want, and it’s yours. I promise.”

“I don’t need anything,” I said, ducking my head, still wrestling with whether to ask why he kissed me.

He sighed and fell silent, turning on the radio. David Cook’s The Time of My Life filled the awkward space.

Minutes later, we were near the Hyatt Regency Hotel. I could see the Gateway Arch in the distance, but to my surprise, he drove right past it.

“You missed the hotel,” I blurted out.

“I know. We’re not going there,” he replied, calmly speeding up.

“What? Where are you taking me?” He didn’t answer. Frustrated, I leaned closer to shake his arm, mindful not to jostle my injured shoulder. “Tell me!”

“Calm down, there's a car following us,” he said. I canceled my intention to look back when he piped up again, “Don’t turn around! Just check the side mirror. I can’t drop you off at the hotel—they’d find you there.”

***

Edited. 17125, Anne Joyce