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CHAPTER 8
Eli
The more Iwalk around Bailey’s complex, trying not to think about how she feels curled up against my chest or about her bare leg touching my arm, the angrier I get. It’s the secondary emotion, stemming from concern. But anger quickly bubbles up, overshadowing my worry.
This complex is a dump.
More than a dump. It would make dumps look like a Hilton.
First of all, there’s no security gate. Anyone could just drive in here, especially given its proximity to the highway. It’s not well-lit, partially because there aren’t a lot of lights, and partially because, out of the few it does have, they either don’t work at all or they’re flickering like they’ve been yanked straight out of a horror movie.
There’s clearly no security guard of any kind. No cameras. Essentially, we’re walking around a total death trap. A serial killer playground.
I don’t like it. At all.
As I walk toward the door Bailey indicated in her sleep-soft voice, I have an internal debate. Have I earned the right to say anything?
Bailey and I are tentative friends. Maybedefinitelyfriends after the time spent together tonight. And if what she said before falling asleep in my car was for real, she agreed to be my fiancée.
For the moment, I’m trying to shelve my thoughts and questions about that, ignoring the weird flurry of hope in my chest battling the worry twisting in my gut. My focus is on getting Bailey home safely tonight.
But whatever part of my brain still connects to my very basal caveman ancestors wants to march back to my SUV, toss Bailey inside (gently), and drive her back to my house. After putting her seatbelt on, of course.
Safety first! Even when being a Neanderthal.
The part most likely steered by my frontal lobe tells me to think long and hard before trying to tell Bailey she can’t—sorry,shouldn’t—live somewhere without proper safety features. Mom’s always told me I’m too protective. I say there’s no such thing.
A thought pings around in my brain like a loose cog. If she’s serious about marrying me, it won’t be an issue for long. But I don’t know that I can count on the words that spilled out of Bailey when she was curled up in the front seat of my car with her eyes closed.
Will she evenremembersaying it? And if she does … did shemeanit?
I don’t really want to ask that either, unsure whether I want the answer to be yes or no.
ActuallymarryingBailey? The idea sits on the surface of my mind rather than sinking in. Because I never—not one singletime—thought marrying someone so Mom and I could stay in the country was something I would do.
Sure, I tossed it around as an idea, joked about it with Bailey, confessed it to the guys and let them believe they were helping me on a wife hunt.
But at no time did it ever seem like it would become a tangible thing, a real possibility, a verifiable option involving a woman, a ring, and a marriage license.
Bailey shifts, her hands moving a little as she clings to my neck, her sigh soft and content. I clutch her a little tighter to my chest. The same cinnamon-cotton candy scent fills my nose, and I wonder if it’s her shampoo or body wash or some kind of perfume. It makes me want a cupcake.
I enjoyed tonight—more than I expected. I saw a different side of the woman who, up until now, occupied a solitary square in my mind. Bailey existed in the animal shelter, in scrubs, the shy woman who I liked to coax into smiling and blushing and talking. Now, the edges of that square have dissolved, and I’m not sure where she fits.
Other than in my arms. She definitely fits here. Whichalsois something I didn’t expect.
As though my thoughts are traveling by osmosis to Bailey and she agrees wholeheartedly about fitting here, she snuggles deeper into me. Burrowing, really, her nose landing somewhere near my collarbone.
“Are we there yet?” she asks through a huge yawn.
It drags a yawn out of me too, even though I’m wide awake. On high alert, because in this sketchy apartment complex, someone has to be. Nearby, I hear raised voices, an argument, mostly muffled behind closed doors. A semi blasts its horn on the highway, the sound startling me.
“Is this the right one? 4B?” I ask, glaring toward the darkest and most remote of all the apartments. I should shut up. I tellmyself to shut up. I can’t shut up. “The one on the first floor, all the way at the end of the building near the woods. The one with all the lights burned out.”
My pointed questions, statements really, spoken in a voice that’s guitar-string tight, finally rouse Bailey enough to open her toffee brown eyes. Not that I can see the color right now. It’s too dark.
Standing in front of her door, we’re literally shrouded in a pool of shadow. The next working light has to be a good fifteen feet away. And it’s pulsing on and off, so dim the moths aren’t even interested.
“I put in an order for maintenance to fix it,” Bailey says.
