Page 10 of Rogue Survivor
Oh, God. His voice is deeper now, and amusement dances in his eyes. I’m dead.
Here lies Isabel. Struck down by the embarrassment of asking a man out on a date.
Yet after a quick glance back at the treadmill and all of my stuff, I shrug. “With dates it can go either way. But I’m willing to bet you meet or exceed expectations.”
Dead. Buried even.
“I’ll do my best,” he says, and my stomach does a somersault. “Lobby in ten? Fifteen?”
“I can be out in ten.” I take a step back toward the treadmill, and he offers me one last smile before disappearing into the men’s locker room.
You just asked a man out on a date. You. Isabel Lopez.
In nine years, I’ve had exactly three guys ask me out. I turned two of them down. One, Ricardo, lasted all of two dinners before he decided he couldn’t handle the baggage of my then fourteen-year-old daughter. The daughter he hadn’t even met.
Yet, not only did I flirt with a handsome FBI agent, I asked him out. I don’t know who I am anymore. But…maybe I’ll get out of Lonely Town myself for at least half an hour, and that’ll be worth it.
Connor
What am I doing? Yesterday, I kicked myself for not asking Isabel out. But my confidence disappeared the moment I had a halo on the treadmill. What if I have another one in the middle of the coffee shop? Or worse—lose my words, my balance, my fine motor skills?
Anything’s possible when I haven’t slept, and nerve pain kept me up all hours last night.
With a towel around my waist, I drop down onto the bench in front of my locker and run my hands through my wet hair. One mistake, and I lost everything. If I hadn’t been so pissed at the two junior agents watching my brother’s sadistic ex, those asshole cops wouldn’t have gotten the drop on me and I’d still be whole. Still be on the job.
When Isabel realizes how fucked-up I am, she’ll run away so fast, I’ll never be able to catch her.
And that’ll be for the best.
Then why am I reaching for the cologne tucked in the side pocket of my duffel bag? Running a comb through my hair and actually glancing in the mirror inside the locker door?
Because you’re fucking lonely, that’s why.
It’s one cup of coffee. A little conversation. A break in the monotony my life has become. And tomorrow, I’ll get to the gym by 8:00 a.m. If I’m not working out right next to Isabel five days a week, I won’t miss what we could have had.
My dark blue Wranglers and green Henley hide most of my scars from the world, and when I find Isabel leaning against the wall in the lobby, she smiles as she tucks her phone into her purse. “You clean up nice.”
“You’re gonna make a grown man blush.” I hold the door open for her, and a stiff breeze ruffles her short black hair.
“Damn. I should have worn a better coat,” she says, tugging her red blazer tightly around her. It’s only a block to Beans and Brews Coffee and Tap House, but I take the leather jacket tucked under my arm and drape it over Isabel’s shoulders.
“You’re one of those ‘gentlemen’ I hear rumors about, aren’t you?” she asks, shrugging into the jacket with a contented sigh. It dwarfs her, the sleeves easily three inches too long, but she looks amazing in it, and when she slips her hand in the crook of my arm, I realize just how much I’ve missed human contact.Anyhuman contact.
“I cannot confirm or deny, ma’am.” Tipping my Stetson, I quickly realize my mistake. “Apologies. Isabel. Afraid ‘ma’am’ was bred into me.”
“You’re forgiven. It’s not the worst thing I’ve been called this week.” She rolls her eyes, and I stop, covering her fingers with mine.
“Care to explain that?”
Isabel sighs. “It’s not important. One of my coworkers thinks all women are his personal ‘babes.’ He’s harmless. Just a jerk.”
I don’t offer to teach the ass some manners—even though I’d like to—just nod as we approach the coffee shop and she pulls away to open the door. I miss the warmth of her hand on my arm, of her closeness. Too much.
“Do you come here a lot?” she asks. “They’re always busy when I pass by.”
“This used to be my first stop every morning,” I admit. “They knew me well enough to start an egg sandwich for me the moment I walked through the door.”
Whether it’s because she notices the sadness lacing my tone or my expression gives me away, I’m thankful she doesn’t press, merely reaches out and gives my hand a squeeze.
