Not going to happen, I reminded myself because clearly, I needed a reminder.
After that, I got down to business, selecting razors, tweezers, hair products, and all the other basics a girl might need. My eye strayed to some really beautiful hairclips, but I didn’t bother to pick them up because they cost too much money.
Sighing, I turned away, catching movement out of the corner of my eye. I looked swiftly, only to see something dark disappear around the end of the aisle. I couldn’t help the way my heart rate picked up or the slight tremor in my hands.
It’s just someone shopping. I reassured myself.
Even still, I headed away from the section, peering down the aisles as I passed. About three rows down, I saw him.
A man with a dark hoodie.
Everything in my cart toppled over with the force of my halting stop.
What the hell are you doing? my mind demanded. Run!
But it was too late. The person heard my fumble and turned, pushing back the hoodie and looking in my direction.
Long blond hair spilled out around her shoulders. She gave me a strange look as I stood there and gaped. I tried to smile and not sound like a complete stalker. “Sorry! I thought you were someone else.” And then I moved away, silently cursing myself.
I grabbed a couple boxes of the power bars that I noticed Holt liked to eat and then wandered over toward the sleepwear. I gazed at all their cute pajamas, with the tank tops and matching bottoms. The nightgowns were feminine and pretty with bows and polka dots. I thought about getting something… something I could wear to bed in case Holt decided to sleep with me again tonight.
But in the end I didn’t.
Because if I bought those pajamas, I wouldn’t need his T-shirt.
I made my way to the checkout counter, feeling tiny pinpricks of warning on the back of my neck. I felt creepy… I felt watched.
I glanced around, but no one appeared to be staring.
Quickly, I paid for my items and piled the bags into the cart. I could have carried them all, but with my wrists still hurting and the mile I had to walk to the truck, I decided I would just use the cart.
Outside, the summer southern heat blasted me, and I paused to dig in one of the bags for the new pair of sunglasses I picked out. They were white with wide oval-shaped lenses. Once they were in my hand, I checked the street and then continued out, fumbling with the tag hanging from the frame of my shades.
I heard the acceleration of an engine but didn’t look up.
Not until the screeching of tires seemed entirely too close and someone across the parking lot gave a shout.
My head snapped up.
Time slowed.
The car did not.
At the very last second, I swung the cart in front of me and dove to the side, slamming into a parked car and falling onto the hot asphalt.
The sound of crunching metal pierced my ears.
I was aware of the car squealing away, and then there were people surrounding me, trying to help me off the ground.
A man with jeans and a black T-shirt leaned over me. “Holy shit! Are you all right? He tried to run you down.”
I looked up at him, pressing a hand to my forehead. Everything was tilted and dizzy.
“I’m calling the cops,” he said and yanked out a cell phone. That’s when I noticed his shoes. They were brand new or rarely worn. A common men’s brand.
I lurched up from the pavement, reaching out a hand to steady myself against the car nearby. The man reached out to help me, and I jerked away before he could touch me.
“No need to call the police. I’m fine.”
His eyes about fell out of his head. He was young, maybe my age. He didn’t look like the type of guy that would try to burn me to death. More than once. I hated the fact that I was instantly suspicious of everyone around me.
Of course, what did I expect? For him to walk around wearing a T-shirt that said PYRO across the front?
Unlikely.
“Lady, that guy just tried to run you down!”
“Yeah, I was there,” I snapped. I was really getting tired of someone trying to kill me.
“You need to call the cops,” said a woman standing nearby.
“Did anyone get his plates? A description? Anything?” I asked. Anything at all would be helpful.
Everyone looked around blankly at each other.
The guy with the sneakers spoke up. “It was a man. He was wearing glasses and a dark hoodie.”
My knee was scraped from where I fell and I could feel the warm blood oozing down my lower leg.
“Thank you,” I told him, trying not to look at his shoes and scream. I knew he wasn’t the one trying to kill me, but it drove me crazy that I felt like I couldn’t trust anyone. How was I supposed to carry on with my life and not stare at every man wearing these shoes or a dark hoodie? Is this how my life was going to be from now on—me looking over my shoulder, searching every face for a sign they were the one?