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Not atallan Enforcer thing. As tough as these guys act, I haven’t seen men this well-maintained and pretty outside of a runway show on TV. Pretty boys who love their clothes, the lot of them.
The man doesn’t carry himself like an Enforcer either. There’s a fluidity in the way he stands, , like he’s part rubber. No tension in the shoulders, features loose with a gentle smile curling the corners of his mouth. Almost like he’s happy, and as pretty and well-dressed as these Enforcers are,noneof them seem genuinely happy.
Which is weird. Not the Enforcers being miserable. This jobismiserable, but this strange man who seems happy in a place where no one is happy.
He’s a curiosity that I can’t help inspecting, at odds with the company he keeps. He rubs at his wrists, and I see red marks encircling them. Before I have a chance to wonder at them, he notices me. Like a child holding a crush from afar, fear grips me when our eyes meet, but only for a moment. I swallow it back while he approaches.
“Cute dog,” he says. His voice is a warm baritone and feels like a hot shower.
Unable to fight my shifter side, I inhale deeply, taking in his scent, which instantly marks him as a shifter, too. But more than that, he smells of Sandalwood and something else warm and comforting. Caramel or honey maybe? Whatever it is, it’s nice.Reallynice.
“How long have you had him?” he asks, smiling down at Trouble.
I squint against the rising sun to peer into his eyes and notice a peculiar feature. They’re different colors, one honey, the other winter blue. It reminds me of huskies, and I liken this man to a dog.Cute dog, indeed.
But what I say back is, “He’s not mine,” which even my tired mind knows is better than calling him a cute dog to his face.
His brow lifts. “Looks pretty attached. You sure?”
I glance down at Trouble. I’m not exactly good with animals, but maybe hedoesseem pretty comfortable with me, head on my leg, body stretched out alongside my own.
For some reason, I’m not sure how I feel about that, but I keep those thoughts to myself. “Positive.”
He crouches down and gives Trouble a rub. The dog rolls over, inviting the man to pet his belly. “Good boy. What’s your name?”
“Trouble,” I answer for him.
The man laughs, broadening his smile. It’s a nice smile, genuine, jovial. Nonthreatening. Everything about him seems nonthreatening, and now I’m really starting to wonder what he’s doing here, because threatening is probably the most important prerequisite to becoming an Enforcer. “Trouble’s a perfect name for a dog.” He looks back at me with his two-tone eyes. “I’m Orson.”
Anyone else I might have lied or not answered, but my response comes without fear. “Asha.”
“Pleased to meet you, Asha.” He pivots and plants his keister next to me, but giving enough space between us that I don’t feel like he’s going to try anything weird.
I steal furtive glances to watch his eyes chasing after the birds. He looks relaxed and happy, like there isn’t an investigation just a short distance away. Like we’re two people randomly meeting in a park.
Is it weird that I already wish I could see the world through his eyes?
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he asks, and his words jolt me from my thoughts.
I stare around us, looking for the source of his interest. “What?”
“The forest. If only we could follow its model.” He sounds strangely thoughtful.
My brow furrows. “What do you mean?”
“It’s a tightly interwoven tapestry of life, comprising trees, plants, birds, mammals, insects, as different from one another as any two things that draw breath can be. Yet they exist in harmony, a trait sorely lacking from the world of men, don’t you think?”
He may look like a surfer dude, but he speaks like a poet-philosopher. My burgeoning attraction begins to blossom, which is a surprise. I can’t remember if I was a sexual being before the torture and the pain. I think, maybe, I was someone who enjoyed sex, but I’ve never felt anything like my attraction to Braxton and Max. My connection to them makes me nervous, as does the unexpected attraction I feel to this man.
But I can’t help hewing to my usual brusque responses as I reply, “I’m no man.”
He chuckles, and a slow shiver descends along my spine, like the honey in his voice just spilled down my back. “No, Asha, you’re certainly not.”
“Neither are you.”
His eyes narrow, until the meaning of my words strikes him. “You smell the hound in me. Which means you must have one yourself.” He rubs Trouble’s head. “The wet pooch masked your scent in my approach.”
I decide it’s enough. As tempting as it would be to keep talking to this man, like taking a vacation from my life, I can’t keep doing that. Because, well, I can’t take vacations from my life.
