CH.14
1110 Words
Mr. Blackthorn remained silent throughout the time I spent pouring out my heart, taking care not to go into too many details.
His eyes briefly flicked away from the road to glance at the screen again, taking in the destination.
His brow furrowed slightly as he processed the information. "The address is for a women's clinic," he observed.
His tone was carefully neutral, but I could sense the curiosity and concern underlying his words.
He thought I was going to the hospital to get my foot treated.
I expected him to ask directly about the reason for the discrepancy and pry further into my personal affairs. However, his next words exceeded my expectations and showed a level of thoughtfulness I didn't anticipate.
"You look too young to be left at home alone and take care of your health on your own.”
The statement was simple, but it carried a weight of implied meaning that made my throat tighten with unexpected emotion.
When he turned to make eye contact with me at the next red light, his expression was one of noticeable annoyance, though I sensed it wasn't directed at me.
"A real man stands beside his wife and shares all the burdens with her. I haven't even met him yet, and I've already gotten a bad impression." his voice took on a stern edge.
"He's not much of a man in the truest sense of the word." I muttered under my breath and pressed my lips together to keep from laughing bitterly at the understatement.
Mr. Blackthorn noticed the slight quirk of my mouth. "You seem to be in a good mood today," he observed dryly, one eyebrow raised slightly.
I let out a laugh at the absurdity of the situation. Here I was, spilling my marital troubles to my neighbor in his luxury car.
"Very well, actually. I can't remember the last time I felt this... free, I suppose. Free to just talk," I admitted, surprising myself with the realization.
He continued navigating the busier streets to the clinic but didn’t miss letting his eyes dart over my neck for a moment.
"That's clear!" he said in a tone that implied he had noticed something I hadn't intended him to see.
I self-consciously pressed my hand to where he had been looking and felt a twinge of pain - no doubt from a bruise I had forgotten about.
"It's not what you think!" I exclaimed defensively.
Mr. Blackthorn didn't seem convinced by my flustered denial.
It no doubt came across as a desperate attempt at deflection from a shy woman, and I knew it.
"It's just a bruise, and touching it hurts. Not a...sign of love or anything," I tried to explain awkwardly, stumbling over the words.
‘Damn it! Why are you trying to explain yourself to him? He isn't your man or anything!’
I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks again, spreading down my neck to where my fingers still rested on the tender skin.
One of his eyebrows rose slyly, and I found myself mirroring the skeptical expression.
"We women tend to hide the signs of... affection," I said, trying to sound worldly and experienced despite my embarrassment. "But there's nothing wrong with showing bruises because it doesn't cause shame. We just don't like to brag about our, um, romantic achievements like men do."
I was babbling now, and I knew it. Something about Mr. Blackthorn's steady presence made me feel safe enough to keep talking, even if I was making a fool of myself.
He didn't interrupt or try to stop me. He kept listening with the same stoic expression.
"I’m not that easy to fool, lady," he said slowly when I finally ran out of words. "But I will choose to believe that it is just a bruise, as you say."
His tone suggested he was humoring me rather than actually believing my flimsy explanation.
I giggled spontaneously at the absurdity of the entire conversation. "Let's stop, Mr. Blackthorn. It's inappropriate to talk like this. We're neighbors, not friends.” Formality was back into our interaction.
He looked at me with the tip of his eyelid, his features calm but his eyes twinkling with something that might have been amusement. "You forget I’m older.” he pointed out.
I felt compelled to ask about his age after a quick glance at his gorgeous face, which appeared to be in his late twenties or early thirties. However, I opted against it because it would appear disrespectful.
"That's another reason we shouldn't be discussing such things.”
Despite the prestige that surrounded him, I felt strangely comfortable in his presence.
"Are you coming to the neighborhood barbecue this weekend?" his sudden inquiry caught me off guard.
A frown formed on my lips. "Richard hasn't told me his final decision yet," I admitted, my earlier good mood dimming slightly at the thought of my husband. "We're two days away from the evening date. If he doesn't have any work, of course we'll come."
Even as I said it, I knew how unlikely it was that Richard would choose a neighborhood gathering over work.
Mr. Blackthorn nodded sympathetically, seeming to understand the unspoken part of my answer.
He focused on driving while I, remembering my husband's habitual absence and general helplessness in social situations, faced the window silently.
Then I started kicking the floor with my feet in a childish display I didn’t realize until his next words reached my ears.
"Your feet hit the ground! I’m surprised!" Mr. Blackthorn exclaimed with genuine surprise coloring his voice.
His eyes flickered down and a hint of amusement played at the corners of his mouth.
It dawned on me then. He was making fun of my diminutive height. Again.
A flare of annoyance sparked within me. "I don't know why you keep poking fun at how short I am since you met me yesterday.” My voice came out softer than I expected. “They say short women are spoiled and feminine, you know."
I tossed my head exaggeratedly, causing my loose curls to bounce around my shoulders.
The scent of my shampoo immediately took my mind off of the tension that was building between us.
The traffic signal ahead turned red. His intense gaze dropped from my face, and I felt the weight linger on my exposed thigh.
I suddenly became acutely aware of how high my flimsy sundress had ridden up due to my earlier careless movements.
The thin fabric only offered little protection from his scrutiny.
"You're bleeding." His rich baritone voice had a note of possessiveness to it that made me uncontrollably tremble.
- Writer
