Escaping Me by Elizabeth Lee Sales Blitz

I hold my head
back and walk toward the delivery truck.
Cole’s eyes are down on the clipboard he is holding in his hands as he
double-checks what he has to take off the truck.

“You’re
a little late to take me up on the drink offer,” I tease as I cross the gravel
drive toward him, shuffling my flip-flops against the rocks.  I am hoping that maybe he is a morning
person and will be in a better mood than the last time I saw him.  No such luck.  He looks up at me quickly, adjusting the bill of his hat to
shade his face, and then back down at his clipboard.  Not even the hint of a grin on his lips. Wow.  His expression is as cold as it was
last night when he walked away from me.
He shakes his head, albeit subtly, but to me it is like a flashing neon
sign that says, “Go away.”

He sets the
clipboard down on the hood of the truck, his eyes never once drifting back to
mine.  Instead, he turns his back
and walks behind the truck.  He
lowers the gate and pulls the pallet lift, loaded up with whatever it was my
mom ordered.  As he lowers the lift
to the ground, he keeps his focus on what he is doing.  It is painfully obvious that he is
avoiding looking at me.  Maybe I
should have looked in the mirror again?
I thought my fitted pink t-shirt and black cotton shorts were cute
pajamas. Maybe I was wrong.  Do
I look that horrible this morning?

“Just
put it outside the barn doors over there,” I say between clenched teeth.  Who the hell does this guy think he
is?  Never in my life have I been
so callously ignored.  I glance over
my shoulder at my mother and Mallory, who are still watching from the kitchen
window.  I roll my eyes at them and
turn back to see if Mr. Personality has finished what he came here to do.  As infuriating as this situation is
becoming, I can’t help but notice how fantastic his ass looks in his
jeans.  The worn denim hangs from
his narrow waist perfectly—not cowboy tight and not gangster loose.  The gray t-shirt that is stretched
across his back reads Wilson Lumber Yard with their catchy slogan underneath—“We
Got Wood”.  I fight back a
giggle.  At least someone has a
sense of humor.  He unloads the
pallet and has the lift back in the truck, all while managing to completely not
acknowledge my existence.

“I’ll just go ahead and sign
for this so you can be on your way,” I say as he climbs out of the back
of the truck.  This time, the icy
tone of my voice catches his attention. I can feel his eyes on me as I walk to
the front of the truck.   “I’d
hate to keep you from the obviously more important things you would rather be
doing.”  Leaning over the hood, I
pull a pen from the holder on the top of the clipboard.  My frustration with his attitude is
made perfectly clear as I furiously click the plunger on the top of the
pen.  My eyes are busy scanning for
the space I am supposed to sign when a sudden shadow is cast over my
shoulder.  I can feel his breath on
my neck and his body resting behind mine.
It must be the nature of the position we are in because I have to fight
the urge to back into him.  To feel
his hard body against my backside.
My skin is on fire and my brain immediately tries to reason that it is
anger as opposed to something else.

“Do
you mind?” I snap, turning to tell him to back off.  But he doesn’t. Instead, he places his hands on the truck,
catching me between his muscled forearms and pinning me between his delicious
body and the truck.  Even under the
bill of that hat he is always wearing, I can see his shaded eyes narrow in on
mine.  It isn’t with contempt or
agitation—it is something else.
Yes.  He is looking at me
like he wants to tear my clothes off, and I would let him. 

He closes the
distance between us.  Here we are,
chest to chest.  The air around me
instantly thickens, making it nearly impossible to breathe.  His eyes go to mine and then to my
lips, the same way they did at the bar.
He takes in a shallow breath, and I can tell he is having a hard time
breathing, too.  I’m not sure if I
should duck out from under him and run or throw myself against him.  I’ve never been so intimidated or so
turned on in my life.  It is
infuriating.  He licks one corner
of his lips and I think for sure he is going to kiss me.  Seconds tick and he still hasn’t
moved.  Is he waiting for me to
give him the okay?  Does he really
want to kiss me?  I raise my chin
slightly and let my eyes close.  I
hold my breath, waiting for his lip to fall on mine, and forget every reason I
should be mad at him for.  That is
until he utters three words that manage to remind me. 

“No
signature required.”