Finding It (Losing It, #3)(7)

Nope. I needed to walk off the alcohol before I went home if I wanted to avoid a breakdown of child-star proportions. And this time, I should walk facing the right direction.

After only a few steps, my tagalong was right at my side. I scowled and tried to walk faster, but my stilettos weren’t having that. And I didn’t trust myself not to face-plant into the cobblestone with the kind of night I was having.

And though I wouldn’t admit it to anyone, I was a little glad for the company.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

He arched one dark eyebrow.

“You waited long enough to ask that.”

I shrugged. “Names aren’t exactly the important bit in places like this.” I gestured behind us to the bar we’d just left. “And, honestly, I couldn’t care less.”

Or that’s what I was telling myself. And him.

“So, then why ask? If names aren’t important and you don’t care?”

“Well, first, we’re no longer in said bar. And second, you’re following me, and I’m asking questions to fill the silence because otherwise things will get awkward. And talking keeps me from thinking about how you’re probably a serial killer, hence the whole following thing.”

“From a knight in shining armor to a serial killer.”

“The nice-guy bit could be an act. And you definitely look like you could be dangerous.”

“Are you always this honest?”

“Not even close. It’s the alcohol talking. Totally powers down my filter.”

The smile was back in his eyes, and maybe it was because I was drunk, but this guy didn’t make a lick of sense. That should have worried me. Maybe there really was something off about him. But at the moment, my brain was full just trying to stay upright and breathe.

He said, “I’ll tell you my name if you’ll tell me something about yourself.”

“Like what?” My pin number?

“It doesn’t matter. Something else honest.”

I couldn’t seem to walk in a straight line. My path kept veering toward his. Probably because I was drunk. Or his muscles were magnetic. Both completely plausible options.

My arm brushed his, and the sensation went straight to my head, electric and fuzzy, so I said the first thing I thought of.

“Honestly? I’m tired.”

He laughed once. “That’s because it’s almost dawn.”

“Not that kind of tired.”

“What kind of tired, then?”

“The bone-deep kind. The kind of tired that sleep doesn’t fix. Just tired of … being.”

He stayed quiet for one, two, three steps down the narrow, echoing street. Then his pace slowed, and I could feel his eyes on me. I strained my peripheral vision to see more of him. He said, “You don’t show it.”

“I don’t show much of anything.”

Three more silent steps.

He said, “I bet that gets tiring, too.”

What was I doing telling him this shit?

I looked over at him. My stilettos apparently weren’t safe unless I was watching them, because they slipped between two stones on the street. My ankle turned for the second time that night, and I teetered sideways. I reached out to try to balance myself on his shoulder, but I was falling away from him, and I was too slow. Luckily, he was faster. He turned and caught my elbow with one hand and wrapped the other around my waist. He pulled me upright, and I could feel a stubborn blush creeping up my neck. I had no problem playing the ditzy blonde to get what I wanted, but I hated that I was living the stereotype unintentionally at the moment.

“How are your cheeks?” he asked.

I blinked, hyperaware of his hand around my waist and the long fingers that could easily have skated farther down my body. Just thinking this had my heart racing to catch up with my thoughts.

“Can you feel them?” he added.

Oh, those cheeks. Disappointment doused the longing flame in me.

The hand that had been tucked around my elbow came up and grazed the curve of my cheek in reminder. And the flame was back.

“They, um,” I swallowed, “just feel a bit heavy is all.”

His eyes pinned me in place for a few seconds. There was so much behind that stare, more than there should be from a guy I’d just met tonight (if vomiting in front of him counted as meeting, since I still hadn’t even gotten his name).

He righted me, and his warm hands left my skin.

Resisting the urge to pull him back, I said, “Your turn.”

“My cheeks feel fine.”

I smiled. “I meant your name.”

He nodded and started walking again. I followed, more careful now of where I placed my feet.

“Most people call me Hunt.”

I took a few quick steps and caught up to him.

“Should I call you that? Am I most people?”

He pushed his fists into his pocket, and his strides grew even longer. He glanced back at me once before focusing on the narrow stone street ahead of us.

“Honestly, I have no idea what you are.”

What did that mean? He didn’t know what kind of girl I was? (Because I would totally tell him what kind of girl I was.)

Based on the set of his shoulders and the fact that he barely looked at me, I was guessing he meant something a bit more serious.