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“Jenga?” I asked.
“Who are you?”
“I’m Wren, I mean Juror Number 11. You know me.”
“We’re not allowed to talk to each other when our security detail isn’t watching.”
I reminded her, “We can talk to each other but just not about the c—“
But I didn’t get the chance to finish my sentence because she’d already closed the door.
Rude. Paranoid and rude.
I padded over to where the security guard was sitting at the end of the hall. “Hey, Officer Max, you wanna play Jenga?’
“I’m working. You should go back to your room.”
“Is that the rules?”
“Well, it’s not the law, but….”
“Great. So let’s play.”
“I can’t. I’m working.”
“Fine,” I sighed and tried the next door down from the rude lady.
And who in the world should answer it but the man himself. Sam.
“Jenga?” I ask.
He waits a beat. And while he does, it gives me a chance to study his face. He looks shocked, angry, surprised, and flushed.
And shirtless. Holy shit, he’s shirtless in his Wranglers and I think i might die. I knew he filled out them cowboy shirts quite nicely. His broad shoulders and defined pecs, tanned and sculpted over years of hard work, are even easier to look at than I’d imagined. Unencumbered by a shirt, his treasure trail tempts me to let my gaze drop lower, and linger below his navel.
“What’s that?”
“Huh? Oh! It’s a party game. Can I come in?”
His face blanches. “No! I mean, no, you cannot come in.”
“Oh. Well you wanna come to my room and...?”
“Heck no.”
“Excuse me?”
“Sorry, I was in the middle of a workout. I didn’t mean to be so abrupt.”
“Oh. OK. What kind of a workout?”
“Nothing. No kind of workout.”
“What?”
He pushes into the hallway. “Can I help you with something?”
“I just wanted to know if you wanted to play Jenga. I’m bored and I don’t have anyone to talk to.”
