Page 29 of Dirty Fighter

Slowly, I reach for his chest, the backs of my fingers making contact with the warmth of his flesh before his big hand closes around my wrist, holding me where I am.

“Rowan?”

At the gravel-rough sound of his voice, I look up, ready to explain.

Only when our eyes meet, I lose track of what I was going to say.

What I’m doing.

Why I’m here.

Because the way he’s looking at me, it’s not with resentment or even wary curiosity. It’s like⁠—

The wind picks up, and the lightest brush against my fingers has me nodding toward my upturned hand. “I know you don’t like them.”

Jason follows my gaze to the small spider meandering the length of my index finger like she has no idea the ruckus she caused.

He coughs out a laugh.

“I don’t mind one.” Then, shaking his head, he quietly mutters, “It’s when all the babies come out at once.”

Babies? “Oh sure,” I mumble. I’ve been working hard not to stare at the hockey god’s body, but now…

“Think I got them all.” He twitches, then stills.

I try not to shift my focus up to the tiny dark creature emerging from his hairline… or its sibling now cresting his jaw.

“It’s okay,” I say, sounding as calm as I have since I arrived. A controlled tone that doesn’t betray my actual thoughts is a well-practiced skill, honed over decades.

I feel like I’m nailing the delivery as I let the first spider drift into the wind and carefully reach for, yep, might as well start with the one on his shoulder. “Just give me one second and⁠—”

“Fuuuuuuuck!” The giant, powerful man before me does this kind of shuddering convulsive shake, not actually ejecting a single one of the minuscule guests on his person.

That’s four now.

Wait, no, six.

“Jason, let me—” But that’s as far as I get before he takes off like a bat out of hell, racing down the path toward the dock.

He cuts left, then right, agile and lightning fast. Quickly dropping out of sight as I start after him.

This guy isn’t even following the switchbacks. He’s bounding down the ungroomed hill with the confidence of a man who grew up navigating this island and the skill of a professional athlete accustomed to split-second assessment and follow-through.

I’m barely to the top of the stairs when he hits the straightaway, barreling down the worn planks of the dock at breakneck speed. And then⁠—

Gulp.

His shorts drop, abandoned with barely a missed step. He doesn’t stop for his shoes or the boxer briefs hugging his massive thighs and spectacular ass.

His arms extend in a smooth arc to meet overhead, the muscles of his back rippling and flexing as he propels himself into the air and then down into a perfect, splashless dive.

Watching Jason Stanvic flee a few baby spiders should not be hot.

I mean, really.

It’s ridiculous.

I could have had him spider-free in less time than it took him to jump in the lake.