Tall, Dark, and Terrible Timing

By the time my shift ended, I had convinced myself the heavy feeling in my stomach was nothing more than greasy diner food and leftover annoyance.

That was easier to believe.

Much easier.

Dani tried to make me stay and split a slice of pie, claiming sugar solved most emotional issues and made the rest more entertaining. I told her no, mostly because if I ate one more bite of anything from that restaurant, I was going to start smelling permanently like fryer grease and regret.

Outside, the evening air had turned cool, the kind of cool that made the little hairs on your arms stand up and made every sound seem sharper. Cars moved slow through town, headlights glowing against storefront windows. The whole street looked normal.

Too normal.

I hated when things looked normal.

That was usually when life got cocky.

I tightened my jacket around myself and stepped off the curb.

The horn came first.

Loud.

Violent.

Close enough to split the air in half.

I froze.

Which, for the record, is not what a person is supposed to do when a bus is barreling toward them.

My brain screamed move.

My feet, apparently, had filed a formal complaint and refused.

Then something grabbed me.

An arm wrapped around my waist and yanked me backward so hard my shoes scraped the pavement. My back slammed against something solid, warm, and very much alive.

The bus blew past us with another angry blast of its horn.

For one second, neither of us moved.

My heart hammered so hard I could hear it in my ears.

Then a voice near my cheek said, “You make a habit of stepping in front of large moving objects, or was that just for me?”

I turned.

And immediately wished I had done something more graceful.

Like fainted.

Because standing there, still holding me against him like I weighed nothing, was the kind of man small towns did not produce without everyone knowing about it.

He was tall.

Very tall.

Dark brown ringlets curled around his face like he had no business looking that put together without effort. His eyes were a warm coffee color, the kind that made a woman forget she had sense if she wasn’t careful.

Unfortunately for him, I had spent thirty-four years being careful.

Mostly.

“Are you going to let go of me?” I asked.

His eyebrows lifted.

“Are you going to try to get hit by another bus?”

“No.”

“Then probably.”

He released me slowly, like he wasn’t completely convinced I could be trusted with my own survival.

Which was fair.

I smoothed my shirt and tried to regain what little dignity I had left.

It didn’t work.

My apron was twisted, one curl had fallen directly into my mouth, and my purse was somehow hanging off one elbow like it was ashamed to be seen with me.

Wonderful.

The man’s mouth twitched.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.”

“You almost got flattened by public transportation.”

“I said I’m fine.”

“That’s usually what people say right before they pass out.”

“I don’t pass out.”

“You sure?”

“No.”

He laughed.

It was not helpful.

“Thank you,” I said, because Grandma Mae had raised me better than to be rude to a man who had just saved me from becoming a cautionary tale.

“You’re welcome.”

I looked him over before I could stop myself.

He was wearing dark jeans, boots, and a gray shirt that fit him in a way that felt personally unnecessary. Nothing about him looked familiar.

And that bothered me.

In a town this size, unfamiliar people stood out.

Good-looking unfamiliar people stood out like fireworks at a funeral.

“You from around here?” I asked.

His smile changed.

Not much.

Just enough.

“No.”

“I figured.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because if you were, I’d have noticed.”

His grin widened.

My face heated before I could take the words back.

“That came out wrong.”

“I liked it.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“How did you mean it?”

“I meant people talk.”

“About handsome strangers?”

“About everything.”

“Good to know.”

I narrowed my eyes.

“You always this charming after near-death experiences?”

“Only when they’re not mine.”

I should have walked away.

Instead, I stood there like an idiot, trying to figure out why the air around him felt strange.

Not bad.

Not exactly.

But charged.

Like the sky right before a storm.

The feeling in my stomach shifted.

Not gone.

Not fulfilled.

Just different.

That irritated me.

“Well,” I said, taking a step back, “thanks again for the rescue.”

“Anytime.”

“Let’s hope not.”

He smiled like he found me amusing.

I did not care for that.

Not even a little.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

I hesitated.

“Ruby.”

“Ruby,” he repeated, like he was testing how it sounded.

I hated that I liked the way he said it.

“And you are?”

He opened his mouth.

Then a truck rolled by, its radio blaring loud enough to swallow the moment whole.

By the time it passed, I had already decided I didn’t need to know.

“Never mind,” I said quickly. “I should go.”

“Careful crossing streets.”

“Careful existing mysteriously in small towns.”

That made him laugh again.

I walked away before my mouth could embarrass me further.

All the way home, I told myself the feeling had been about the bus.

That had to be it.

The heaviness.

The warning.

The strange itch beneath my skin.

A person almost gets killed, and then it stops. That made sense.

For once, the Knowing had done its little spooky dance, and the bad thing had already happened.

I was safe.

It was over.

By the time I reached my front door, I had almost convinced myself.

Then someone started pounding on it hard enough to rattle the frame.

“Ruby! Open this damn door!”

I closed my eyes.

Of course.

Because apparently the universe had decided one near-death experience wasn’t enough for a Tuesday.