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When he told me he wanted to escort me everywhere, I didn’t truly believe he’d stick to that. It’s easy to say at the moment, but I half expected him to ditch me and laugh about it with the crew he’s likely friends with. The guy can get along with a tadpole if its name isn’t Mallory Reynolds.
Here he is, keeping his word and knocking on my door bright and early. I guess he’s capable of kindness where I’m concerned, after all.
Maybe this shouldn’t be such a shock. The word around town is that Paxton Ramsey is one of the good ones.
Now, granted, he’s been anything but nice to me. However, when I first met . . .
Well, maybe not then, either, but I have seen glimmers here and there of that good guy.
“Come on, princess. We don’t have all day.”
Yep. All lies. He’s an ass.
Looking around my room, I find my hoody and grab it. I’m wearing a black tank, but the weather is a bit colder today compared to the last few days. The leggings are necessary with the wind that seems to be picking up. The cool air coming off the ocean is chilly on a warm day. Today, it’ll just about do me in.
Dramatic? Obviously.
Once I’m situated, I throw open the door, and of course, he’s standing there, looking larger than life.
The early morning sunlight streaks across his face, making his blue eyes take on the shade one can only find in the shallow waters of a tropical ocean.
Clear and almost translucent.
One could get lost in them, and as he shifts his weight to step back, I realize I just did.
This man is dangerous, especially now.
Now that I can see past the anger and walls he’s built up.
“It’s still a tropical island, Mal. What’s with the parka?”
I pull a face, looking down at my clothes.
“It’s weather appropriate.” My voice pitches a bit, flaring with indignation.
“If you’re in Alaska.”
“Apparently, you’ve never been to Alaska if you think this is appropriate.” I scoff. “Whatever. Let’s do this.”
I pull the sweatshirt off, feeling insecure from his criticism, which is stupid because I should be used to it.
I’m still thinking about it when I take a step down, and as I try to avoid the hole in the wood that still hasn’t been fixed, Paxton’s arm darts out, and his hand wraps around my upper arm. His touch is strong enough to steady but not one to wound.
Again, he’s protecting me, and my traitorous heart melts.
It’s becoming harder and harder to hate him when he keeps acting like this.
Being alone with Paxton when he’s like this is dangerous because, apparently, I’m unable to think straight around this man.
It’s not that I want him to be mean to me. Of course, I don’t. But I don’t know how to reconcile the two versions of Paxton.
A feeling blooms in my belly, warm and fuzzy. What if he’s finally ready to move past his hate? What if we can get along?
“Why am I constantly having to rescue you?” His tone isn’t exactly harsh, but it’s not teasing, either.
Nope . . . definitely not ready to get along.
I’m not going to get my hopes up for that. The moment we’re back around people, all this will evaporate into smoke, and the asshole will return.
When I’m back on firm ground, his hand on my arm lingers for a beat, then it drops to the small of my back as he lets me pass him.
Despite my best intentions, I can’t help my shiver at the feel of his warmth.
By chance, my tank top has risen, and since the hoodie is in my hand, his skin touches the small, exposed area above my leggings.
It’s only a finger, but it feels like my body is on fire.
It catapults me back in time to the way his fingers had their wicked way with me.
How I was begging, desperate, and ready to go home with him after only a brief conversation.
I let out a large breath. I need to rein myself in.
“Everything okay over there?”
“Just a lot on my mind.”
You. Mostly you and your expert fingers.
“Care to talk about it? We have at least five minutes before we bump into anyone.”
“Nope,” I squeak, earning a raised brow from Paxton.
I’ll take these five minutes before we bump into our high-maintenance clients and enjoy the island’s peacefulness. Brad and Teagan have us both on edge, so I’ll jump on any chance to relax.
The fact he wants to discuss anything with me is a complete one-eighty from only a few days ago, but I need time to pull myself out of the gutter.
“Mallory. Talk to me.”
I stop walking and turn around. What I see makes my knees go weak.
His blue eyes look at me for the first time with zero hate. The stern glare is gone. They’re soft and filled with compassion. “We can talk about our clients. Or whatever.”
