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“Wow… I mean…. Wow” are the only words I can manage to mumble as I look at a picture of Shepherd covered in glistening sweat, sand kicking up behind him as he jogs a few feet away from the crashing waves, wearing nothing but a pair of blue athletic shorts, a baseball cap on backwards, and a truckload of lean, rippling, sweat-covered muscles.
“Sharon must have the newest iPhone with multiple camera lenses. Look at that detail,” Birdie whispers almost reverently. “You can count the hairs of his happy trail.”
I’ve seen plenty of pictures of Shepherd over the years, some he posed for and some that were candid taken by paparazzi. Plenty of them hot as hell. But this is otherworldly, and I’m starting to wonder if the possibility of him being taken over by aliens is true and they genetically altered him.
“I mean… that can’t be real, right? Someone must have Photoshopped this from the time Sharon took it until now,” I mutter, cocking my head to the side to really appreciate the beauty of the V-shaped indent by his hips and lower abs.
“Oh, that’s definitely real. And it’s not even my good side.”
Birdie and I both screech at the same time, but where she has the luxury of being empty-handed when she turns to face the man we were just ogling, my shock at being caught red-handed makes my phone fly up and out of my hands. Bobbling with it for a few seconds before I finally get a hold of it again, I ignore the chuckle from the man behind me. Willing the embarrassed blush off my cheeks as I quickly shove my phone back into the pocket of my shorts, I lift a determined chin in his direction when I finally turn to face him.
And then regret it immediately when I see his dimples, my eyes wanting to look anywhere but at them. Naturally, they fly right down to his torso. Doesn’t matter if it’s now covered in a soft, black, cotton T-shirt with the Hawks mascot on the front. My eyes will never, ever stop seeing Shepherd Oliver shirtless whenever I look at him. That image is now burned into my brain, and another soft chuckle from him, that does indeed feel like warm, melted chocolate being poured over my body, tells me he knows that image is burned into my brain.
Look up at his eyes, you idiot!
When I finally do, the satisfied smirk on his face is still there, but it softens a little when he speaks.
“Hey, Wren.”
When my body threatens to break out in goose bumps just hearing him say my name again, a spark of annoyance flashes through me, and I glare at him. He can’t just sneak up on me like this, twice, and be all, Hey, Wren. Who does he think he is?
“What do you want?”
The short, clipped words are out of me before I can stop them. Instead of immediately feeling bad, the smile on Shepherd’s face that grows bigger when I’m rude to him just ticks me off more.
What are you doing? You’re supposed to be apologizing to him!
“Just wanted to check out practice for a few minutes.” He shrugs easily, flipping the brim of his baseball cap around backward, so his eyes aren’t shielded anymore.
“Oh, now he’s just playing dirty,” Birdie whispers in my ear, always melting whenever Palmer turns his hat around so he can see her better.
Whatever. There’s no melting happening just because a few silky tufts of brown hair are adorably poking out of the hole in his hat now and I can clearly see his bright blue, sparkling eyes that are so gorgeous I’ve had multiple dreams about them staring down at me.
And multiple orgasms—
Nope! Absolutely not. He sucks!
Crossing my arms in front of me, I hold steady with my glare, looking at a spot between his eyes instead of right at them.
“Well, now you’ve checked it out, and now you can leave. If my players see you here, they will never finish practice.”
“So you’ve got it covered?” Shepherd asks, a look of total seriousness on his face, and for a minute, I think he’s actually going to listen to me. I instantly feel bad about my attitude and my shoulders droop a little. “You don’t wanna maybe, I don’t know… do a little practicing out in ‘middle field’?”
His use of the stupid terminology I messed up with him on purpose, and the fact that he’s probably been standing here for God knows how long watching me pretty expertly hold practice, means he absolutely knows the jig is up and that I lied to him.
“Isn’t it called center field?” Birdie pipes up, because of course she does. “I don’t know much about baseball, but I do know where my favorite nephew plays.”
Shepherd lets out another small laugh, but this one borders more on annoyed than filled with humor as he mirrors my pose and crosses his arms over his chest. It causes another spark of annoyance in me, but this time it’s an entire Fourth of July grand finale filled with fiery explosions.
