Free You and Me by Veronica Larsen Page B

stranger here, and therefore, the hypothetical criminal. I haven't dismissed you as a possible threat yet."
    "Really?" I gesture at myself. At my soaked clothes, at what I'm sure is an exhausted expression. "Do I really look like a threat?"
    "You're right. Look at you…good God, are those freckles?"
    "Are you going to ask me if they're everywhere?"
    His eyes widen with humor. "Are they?"
    "Yes. Yes, they are."
    He half turns, laughs and looks back at me, his bottom lip slightly between his teeth. Somehow, that simple move is insanely sexy.
    This is quite possibly the best elevator ride I've ever been on.
    My fingers brush my cheek in a reflex. There are just a few freckles dotting my cheeks. I usually cover them with makeup because they make me look younger than I prefer.
    "You're too adorable to be a murderer."  
    "Looks can be deceiving," I tease.  
    Never thought I'd want a guy to call me adorable. But Jackson? He can call me whatever he wants.  
    "Is that a dimple?" I ask. "See, now that's adorable."
    The elevator comes to a stop and I realize I still haven't gotten hold of my sister.
    "Crap," I hiss under my breath as I take hold of my luggage in one hand and pull out my phone with the other.
    Jackson steps aside to let me exit first and I am acutely aware of him watching me walk down the hall. The phone rings in my ear just once then goes right to voicemail.  
    "Delilah, you better be home. I was stuck outside in the rain and got let into the building by a possible serial killer with adorable dimples, which just makes him all the more dangerous. You know how I feel about dimples." Jackson's chuckle fills the hall and I smile. "I'll be at the door in ten seconds. So open up before I let him murder me."
    I hang up and continue on to the sound of Jackson walking behind me. I'm not sure why we aren't walking side by side. Neither of us says a word, and there's a tension in the silence, a sense of being hyper-aware of someone's presence and knowing they are hyper-aware of yours.
    When I finally reach my apartment door, I rest my luggage against the wall and knock a few times.
    Jackson walks past, and as he does, he says, "See you around, freckles."  
    I give him a playful smirk over my shoulder, mentally high-five myself for my coyness, and then knock on the door again. Jackson comes to a stop a couple doors down, fishes for his keys and opens his door. All the while, I stand outside of my new home, waiting and dripping, a puddle of water growing beneath my feet.
    The bubbly sensation I had while flirting with him is dissipating, my stomach sinking at the realization Delilah's not here.  
    And I have no way of getting inside.
    "Freckles," Jackson calls from down the hall. "Come here."
    I hesitate before responding. "I'm fine, thanks."
    "Come on," he says, setting a hand over his chest. "I can't leave you out here like a lost puppy. Breaks my heart."
    I stare at the closed door in front of me.  
    Well, what are my choices? I don't know anyone else in the building, or even within a ten-mile radius of this building. I have no clue where Delilah is or how long it will be until she returns my call. This Jackson guy is beyond cute and seems decent enough. We are neighbors. And he did trust me enough to let me into his building.  
    Okay, self, you've obviously made up your horny little mind.
    "I'm texting my sister, letting her know where I am," I call out to him. "You know, just in case you try to impale me."
    "I'd only impale you if you wanted me to and only with things you'd want to be impaled with."
    That's awful and I love it. His dark humor, the way he stands outside of his open door, arms open as if I'm supposed to rush into them after what he just said.
    He's freaking custom made, just for me.
    I'm heading in his direction before I fully decide what I'm going to do. We cross the threshold into his apartment, him first and me right behind. My amusement dies when I notice the guy sitting on the couch, staring at