Page 2 of The Hang Up
Also very impressive.
She gave herself a mental slap and met his eyes again. “So what are you doing walking around looking like a giant malt ball? Don’t they have showers or something at the finish line?”
He grinned, flashing a set of perfectly white teeth that contrasted with the mud. “Just hoses. Hoses with really cold water. I figured since I only lived a couple miles from the race course, I could just run there as my warm-up and run home as my cooldown, and then I could grab a warm shower at home.”
“Right,” Miriam said, trying to wrap her brain around the idea of willingly running four miles on top of whatever the hell they ran in the actual race. People really did thison purpose?
“The thing is,” the guy continued, “I lost my key somewhere in the racecourse, and now I can’t get back in my house to shower off in time to make it to a doctor’s appointment.”
Sympathy fluttered through her belly, or maybe that was anxiety.Probably anxiety.The mention of doctors and hospitals and anything medically related tended to send her spiraling down a path of panicked memories and despondent terror, and she found herself gripping her keys a little tighter.
“You have to get to the doctor?” she asked.
“The appointment’s at two. Please, I just need to borrow your phone to call a locksmith. Then I’ll be out of your hair, I swear.”
She glanced at him, then back at her house. Her phone was back on the entry table, but right beside that was her guest bathroom with a shower the guy could use without stepping more than five feet inside her place. Ordinarily she’d think twice about inviting a strange man into her home, but there was something aboutthisman that made her consider it. She could always stand there with a butcher knife, ready to stick it in him if he tried anything funny.
She hesitated, then looked back at the guy.
“I’m Jason, by the way,” he said, smiling wider. “Jason Sanders. I’d shake your hand, but I don’t want to get mud on you.”
“Miriam.” She addedpoliteandconsiderateto his list of attributes. His eyes were kind, and he seemed sweet and well-spoken.
That’s probably what every serial killer’s victim thinks just before he strangles her with her own belt.
But she wasn’t wearing a belt, and she did have a soft spot for friendly, burly, blue-eyed, stubble-jawed guys in need.
“Come on,” she said and turned toward her walkway. “Follow me.”
“Follow you where?”
“My house. You can’t stand out here being dirty.”
He quirked one eyebrow, which caused the mud to crack on his forehead. “You’d rather I be dirty in your house?”
Hell yeah,her libido telegraphed, but she shook her head.
“No, I mean I have a shower in the guest bath that’s right by the front door. You can call a locksmith and then clean up while you wait for him.”
“That’s very kind of you.” He seemed to hesitate. “Aren’t you worried I’m some sort of deranged killer?”
“You don’t seem to have any weapons, though I guess I haven’t frisked you.”
“By all means…” He held up his arms, and the sight of those well-toned biceps sent a fresh shiver of pleasure through her, but she held it together as she turned toward her house.
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“Thank you.” He put his arms down and smiled broadly. “You’re too kind.”
“Not really. The sight of all that mud under your fingernails is making my skin crawl. I’m doing this for purely selfish reasons.”
“I’ll take it,” he said behind her as she started up the path to her front door.
She could have sworn she heard him laugh as he followed her up the walkway.
* * *
Jason finished dryingoff with the fluffy green towel the woman had given him, then inspected it to make sure he hadn’t smeared it with any residual mud. He’d been careful not to leave dirt streaks in her shower, too, conscious of the pristine white tile and the expensive-looking array of bath products lined up on the built-in shelves.
