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Thwak!
I walk about twenty more yards before it’s unmistakable: the sound is coming from the land to the right of me, from the Haywood property.
Probably a workman.
Thwak!
The sound is so loud, it rings so clear through the quiet woods, I’m almost sure now: it’s a bow. Suddenly I remember I have my monocular. I can feel it up against my middle finger’s knuckle, in my pocket by the gun. I use it to bird-watch sometimes.
I lift it to my eye and look around, but I’m not at an angle where I can see the land directly behind the Haywood house; it sits on ground a little higher than my own.
I curve back into the woods before resuming my straight line toward the Haywood place. If someone is shooting arrows at a target, I don’t need to get too close.
I stop again and look through the monocular. And there he is. This…man. I stare for a long moment, my lungs emptied of air, my throat tightening with something th
at feels an awful lot like pain. I don’t even blink, so my eyes water a little. But I can’t take them off him. It’s as if my entire being is holding still while the imprint of him is recorded somewhere deep inside me.
The sensation is uncomfortable. Achy. I draw a deep breath, and my brain seems to un-freeze. My eyes leap into action and start cataloguing details. As soon as my heart releases its grip on me, it’s pathetically obvious why I reacted so viscerally to him.
The man is stunning. Stunning. I’ve seen more than my fair share of beautiful men—models for Ralph Lauren, Armani, Versace, Calvin Klein, Abercrombie. I used to shoot alongside them. So I can judge him with authority.
I breathe gently and roll my gaze over him a few times, like a talent scout seeking a flaw. I find nothing, neither in his technique with the bow nor with his aesthetics. I blink a few times, trying to shake off the dazed feeling I have, before I study each fine feature, starting with his hair. It’s black—or very dark brown—and it’s somewhere on the line between short and long. I think it’s curly. Yes, it must be. It’s not long enough to be a bona fide mane. The curls are more like cresting waves. They shake a little as he takes an arrow from a small, vertical wood box on the ground beside him. I note a curl that’s pasted to his forehead.
His skin is slightly pale, and damp with sweat. My gaze drifts down to his dark brows. They’re model eyebrows: thick, strong slashes that command my gaze. Beneath them are a pair of long-lashed eyes that might be gray or blue. They’re beautiful and shrewd. No doubt about that. His eyes are in the running for Most Prominent Feature. Below them, he’s got a strong, straight nose—actually…it might be ever-so-slightly crooked; I can’t tell from here. It’s framed by high, stark cheekbones that lend him a slightly feline look. His ultra-light beard—only a little more than a shadow—is just enough to give his jaw delectable definition. And his lips. Dear God. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen more gorgeous full and sultry lips.
The wavy hair, the piercing eyes, that godly mouth— the way those lovely features contrast with his sharp bones, the straight line of his nose and the cut of his jaw, the roughness of the dark beard and the slight circles underneath his eyes— It’s damned impressive. Classic.
Armani? Or maybe he’s more Dolce & Gabbana? Definitely not delicate enough for Ralph Lauren. Probably not quite slim enough for Calvin Klein.
He’s like a next-gen Peter Badenhop. And wouldn’t that be fun? Peter is actually super nice and down to earth.
My gaze lingers on the slight furrow between his brows as he notches the arrow with his right hand and slowly draws the cord back. For a second I’m distracted by the way he holds the bow with his left hand: strangely—his pinkie and ring finger held out straight rather than gripping the curve of the bow. Then his tongue darts over his lower lip, and he lets the arrow fly.
My eyes follow it about thirty yards forward, to a round, red target strapped to the front of an oak tree. The arrow is the latest of many.
My gaze latches back onto his tall, strong form as he looks down into the box, then straightens up, showing off his wide shoulders, which are clad in a dark blue thermal shirt. The pants that move with his long strides toward the arrows are dark charcoal—that or faded black. I look down to his black boots: well-worn. He’s tall. Big. He wouldn’t make a photographic match for me despite our shared traits of striking eyes, straight noses, and full lips, because he’s so much taller.
My heart tumbles and my body freezes.
He wouldn’t make a match for you at all, Gwen.
I draw a big breath. In that millisecond all my interest in him, all my admiration of his flawless face and form, curdles.
I watch him pull the arrows from the target with an angry-looking fist. I watch his pretty mouth: so taut and flat, as if he’s frustrated. I watch his brow tighten as he grabs the last arrow out, clenching his hand around it. He puts the arrows under his left arm—strange, when he could hold them in his fist—and strides quickly, with lion-like grace, to his spot just behind the home’s back deck.
Like a model, his movements are elegant and sparse. Actually, he’s probably smoother than most of the ones I knew. I watch his face for one more moment. He’s definitely a doppelganger for Peter Badenhop. Except this guy is bigger. Starker. Honestly, more striking.
I sigh softly.
So that’s my neighbor. Beautiful McBeautyMan. Who looks amazing with his arm pulled back, the bow in hand.
I watch him shoot, and watch the arrow hit the bull’s eye.
Wow. He’s good.
I’m sure he has a good ego to match.
I turn and move as quietly as I can back toward my cabin, vowing to myself to stay away from him.
