It wasn’t that I hated the way I looked now. The fact that I was alive meant I was one of those rare, walking and breathing statistics.
But even knowing how lucky I was didn’t change the fact that I felt . . . deformed. That was a harsh word to use. I didn’t like to whip it out often. Doing so on what was so far a pretty good date was probably not a good idea.
Taking a deep breath, I shook my head. I didn’t need my thoughts going in that direction tonight. So far, the dinner had been amazing. Grady was nice and he was cute. I could maybe see myself going out with him again, to an art exhibit, and maybe coffee.
And that was what had freaked me out.
I was not going to let living freak me out.
Nope.
I could give him a chance and not worry about whether or not I was settling.
Turning from the sink, I dried my hands and then readjusted my hair so it fell forward, over my left shoulder and cheek. I walked out of the bathroom and into the narrow hall, gaze trained on the floor as I took about two steps before I realized someone was standing right outside the door, leaning against the wall. Before I nearly plowed into him.
Gasping, I took a step back. All I could see were finely cut black trousers paired with . . . with old black and white Chucks? What an odd combination, but those shoes reminded me of . . .
I gave a little shake of my head and stepped to the side. “Sorry. Excuse—”
“Jillian.”
I stopped.
Time stopped.
Everything stopped except my heart, because it was suddenly pounding in my chest too hard, too fast. That deep, rough voice. I recognized it all the way to my very core. Slowly, I lifted my gaze, already knowing what I was going to see but refusing to believe it.
Brock Mitchell stood in front of me.
Chapter 3
Shock held me immobile as I stared up at Brock, stunned into silence, because I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. There was no way he was standing in front of me. As far as I knew, he never came to Martinsburg. Ever. Because I was here. He had the entire world. I only had West Virginia.
Those were the unspoken rules.
Maybe I’d fallen and hit my head in the bathroom.
Sounded unlikely.
Because it was Brock, and he was so close I could smell the familiar cologne, the fresh mixture of burning leaves and winter wind.
How in the world was he in this restaurant and I hadn’t seen him? Then again, I never was all that observant, even more so now. But that didn’t explain how Cam, who was majorly obsessed with Brock, hadn’t zeroed in on his presence.
Cam was going to be so disappointed in himself.
“Damn,” he rasped out.
My lips parted, but I was at a loss for words. Brock looked the same as he had the last time I’d seen him, several years ago, but he was more . . . refined, more . . . well, everything. He was still a foot taller than me, but he was broader in the shoulders. The gray button-down pulled taut across his chest. Sleeves were rolled up, revealing those powerful, tattooed forearms. There was new ink on his forearm. New color. His waist tapered in and those pants were tailored to fit what I knew were still strong, muscled thighs.
I dragged my gaze back to his face. Gone was the spiky hair of a man in his mid-twenties. Now the dark brown hair was calmer, cut so that it was styled back from his forehead, and there was a day or two worth of scruff along his jaw and cheeks. He was older.
Well, duh. He would be thirty-four now.
Faint lines were etched into the sandy-colored skin at the corners of his eyes. His face was still all angles. High cheekbones and a full, sensual mouth. The scar on his lower lip was barely noticeable now, after all these years. The one under his left eye still stood out, the one his father had given him the night he’d run away, sending him on a collision course with my life.
Those eyes, the color of warmed chocolate, were just as I remembered, heavily lashed and sharp, and right now he was doing the same thing I was doing to him. Brock was checking me out.
His gaze had started at the tips of my boots, had traveled up the dark denim jeans and over the thin turtleneck. Over the years, my body had evened out. I’ll never be considered thin. My body was rather average, and I didn’t have the desire or willpower to spend two hours a day trying to shape it into something that resembled the women in magazines. I liked my fatty food, and I also liked lounging around and reading in my spare time.
But I remembered quite painfully the kind of women Brock had been attracted to when we were younger. Women with flat stomachs and toned legs. The type of girls where guys could wrap their hands around their waists. Someone who’d spend hours working out alongside him and still somehow looked sexy and amazing when they were sweaty and flushed red in the face. That was what he’d been drawn to. Still was, considering I knew who his fiancée was.
Then I stopped thinking about what I looked like compared to the random chicks he’d hooked up with—to the woman I knew he was engaged to, because yes, I did know that about him. None of that mattered now, because he was staring at my face, and it struck me that he hadn’t seen me in six years without my face being swollen or bandaged. Other than what my family had to have told him, this was the first time he was seeing me since I wasn’t a fan of pictures. Never had been, but even more so now. Any time he would’ve seen me would’ve been a rare glimpse from a distance.
His eyes were slightly wide as his gaze drifted from the left side to the right side of my face. The way he looked at me, a mixture of surprise and an emotion I didn’t want to see, something that turned the blood in my veins bitter, snapped me out of my stupor.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded sharply.