Page 5 of A Fighting Chance

Knowing exactly what she means, I simply nod and watch her leave.

I glance around the room once again, remembering moments of my youth brought forth by the books lining the bookshelf and the trophies on the dresser. While my sister was busy wearing dresses and waving gingerly at the judges, I was running. Across tracks and fields. Well enough to become team captain and win some medals and trophies too. Once again, I’m reminded of our paths—such a stark contrast. Not that there was anything wrong with her path or mine, they were just very different.

I fling myself back on my bed, utterly exhausted from the day of travel, and grateful it’s over. I want nothing more than to peel out of my clothes and crawl underneath the blankets right away, but I think better of it and decide I should at least wash my face and brush my teeth. Being tired doesn’t mean I can forget basic hygiene, after all.

I search through my suitcase for a set of pajamas and settle on a tank top and shorts. Nan and Paw are in bed and it doesn’t matter if Harper happens to see me. There are fewer greater joys in life than removing your bra at the end of a long day. Any woman who disagrees should be evaluated. I shrug out of my stiff travel wear and into the comfort of my pajamas, the thin material so light on my skin, I exhale a sigh of relief.

I grab my toiletry bag and slide into the hallway as quietly as I can, walking to the bathroom nearest my room where I turn the knob without a thought. The sight I uncover, however, is enough to make me want to get back in my rental truck, drive back to the airport, and fly all the way back home right this second.

A man. An attractive man—scratch that—abeautifulman is standing in the bathroom. Sheer shock paralyzes me. I take in his form. He’s standing at the sink in black boxer briefs and no shirt, casually flossing, and I have never had a more thorough appreciation for dental hygiene in my life.

I finally realize I’m staring. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” I say, turning my back to him. Though, if I just read his expression correctly, he doesn’t seem at all disturbed by my invasion of his privacy—or my staring at him for at least one full minute before making an apology.

He lets out a small laugh from behind me. “What for?” he asks, as if I haven’t just barged in on him in his skivvies.

“Well, I would think that’s fairly obvious, but for starters, barging in on you, not knocking,” I start, when his voice cuts me off.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says plainly, not adding anything else.

“Okay,” I say, drawing the word out, unsure of what to say next. “Wait, who are you?”

He turns on the faucet to the sink and fills a cup. “Who are you?” he counters.

I’m shocked for a second time in under two minutes. “Excuse me?”

“No offense, ma’am, but I’ve never met you, so you could definitely be a serial killer or something,” he says.

I think he’s teasing me, but I can’t be sure. I whirl back around, not caring about his state of undress this time. “First of all, don’t call mema’am. Second, what am I going to kill you with? My toothbrush?” I exclaim, holding up my pink travel toothbrush case like a dagger to exaggerate my point.

He shrugs his shoulders at me then leans his hip against the sink, depositing his floss into the trash and folding his arms over his bare chest.

Oh my. His bare chest.

I take a moment to appreciate his form again, as best I can without drawing attention to it. He’s about six-foot-three, if I have to guess. He has the lean form of a swimmer, his skin tanned deep. The only way a man gets that kind of deep tan is by working outside. His brown hair is tousled and a little unkempt. It looks as though he’d just dried it with a towel, still a little damp even. He has a young beard. More than stubble but less than bushy. Just a smattering of hair covering his strong jawline and what I surmise would be dimples if he were to smile. His aforementioned bare chest also has some hair. Not too much. Just enough to make your lady parts aware that he’s definitely all man.

I stare into his green eyes for a moment and realize they’re sweeping up and down my body in the same way I’ve just appraised his. I watch his eyes travel the length of my legs, dissect my stomach, linger on my breasts and then neck, and finally, make eye contact.

“I’m sure you have other weapons on you,” he smirks.

“What?” I ask, confused by his comment. Confused because the sight of him has actually caused me to forget what the hell we were just talking about.

“Your toothbrush shank. I’m just saying, it’s probably not the only weapon you’re carrying.” He uncrosses his arms and turns to the mirror, opening the medicine cabinet and removing a small pill bottle.

I glance down at myself. There’s nowhere to hide a weapon. “Have you seen what I’m wearing? I don’t exactly have a lot of hiding spots.”

“Oh, I definitely see what you’re wearing.” Another smirk. He winks at me in the mirror and I scowl back.

I furrow my eyebrows and try to shove them together on my forehead. A futile effort. I don’t like this man. I like how he looks, but I don’t likehim. I feel my neck and chest warm under his eyes. “Stop looking at me!” I snap.

“You looked at me first,” he counters.

I choke and stutter. “You surprised me. I didn’t expect anyone to be in here, that’s all.”

“Listen, calm down. You’re getting all breathless and shrill,” he says, putting his hands up, making a calming motion toward me.

I don’t like this either. “Who are you?” I ask again, putting my hands on my hips this time, trying to make it clear I mean business.

“If I tell you who I am, are you going to tell me who you are? Because I’m not a mind reader, but you seem offended that I don’t already know,” he says.