Page 12 of Beastly Mr. Buchanan
Misery hangs over me like a dark, stormy cloud.I scuff my sole on the sidewalk and hunker down deeper into my coat to ward off the wind.
The bruise covering my right forearm pulses and my right ear rings, but the swelling on my face is gone, and my makeup held firm all day today.The pain in my left leg has lessened to a dull throb, but it was never sharp enough to cause a limp, so I continue down the concrete in my trusty shoes.I haven’t cried since my mom died when I was eight, but I almost broke that streak last night when my new roommate proved to be not as asexual as he claimed.
Guilt worms through me and adds fuel to the mental storm brewing above me.
I wouldn’t have gotten away without the self-defense class I take every Saturday night at Mr.Carter’s gym, the place I just left, although not for a class.
Tonight the ladies coordinated a surprise party for Hilary.Her husband proposed again.It was sweet.
I’m happy for her, truly, but I barely made it through congratulating her before I bolted for the door.
Which isn’t like me.She deserved better.
I just don’t have it in me to smile tonight.A few decent hours of sleep and a couple ibuprofen, and I’ll be back to the smiley, bubbly woman everyone expects me to be twenty-four-seven, three-sixty-five no matter what horrible thing life throws at me.
I bury the resentful thought, greet the bellhop, rush through the hotel lobby, and jab the elevator button.
As a professional matchmaker, I inevitably always know someone no matter where I go, and after my horrible day yesterday—from being sore from moving the day before, to an unfortunate run-in with my high school bullies, to seeing the grown version of the boy I thought would be my knight in shining armor forever, and then being attacked by my new roommate—the last thing I want is for someone to recognize me and strike up a conversation in the hotel lobby.I’ve missed more than one elevator because of a chatty mom or grandma desperate to marry off their son, and I cannot afford that today.
Oscar Oswald, one of my high school bullies, exits the lounge and heads toward the front desk.Horror clogs my throat.The elevator dings.Half panicked, I slip sideways through the doors—uncaring how ridiculous I must look trying to squeeze my fat self through—the second there’s enough room and stumble toward the back.
I crash into a living wall.
Mortification sweeps through me.Too embarrassed to look up, I fumble through a barely coherent apology and press my back into the far corner, hoping the stranger’s exit will block me from view long enough for the doors to close.
My heart pounds in my ears and exacerbates the ringing on my right side.
With my eyes trained on the tips of my shoes, praying for the safety of my room, I wait until the doors slide closed to look up.
Declan Buchanan pierces my soul with his condescending grey eyes.My heart leaps while my stomach sinks.
“What floor?”he asks.
Wasn’t he getting off?
After the way he treated me yesterday, I need outright now, but the lobby isn’t safe.Not a complete idiot, I say the floor three levels above mine.
Despite standing closer to the back of the elevator than the front, he selects the button without leaning his big body or moving his feet.I swallow as I register the difference in our size.
He could crush me without even trying.
I’d prefer a physical blow, even from his massive hands, to the emotional agony he caused me in middle school and again yesterday.
I drop my gaze back to my feet and ignore him until the elevator dings.Sensing freedom, I mumble another thanks and dart forward.
Long fingers wrap around my bruised forearm.A yelp escapes my throat as agony streaks up my arm.
Declan jerks his hand away as though I bit him, but he crowds me back into the corner with his bulk.
“You’re hurt,” he growls.
“I’m fine.”
He grabs my elbow and works my sleeve up to reveal the bruise.I swallow, but emotions clog my throat.
“Who did this?Who hurt you?”he demands.
I pull my arm out of his grasp and shake my head.
