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“Shit, shit, shit.”I hustle through the house, swerving around the furniture and hopping over a box of questionable pantry items until I'm in the kitchen. I rip the whole roll of paper towel off the little holder on the counter and dash back to the living room.
My adrenaline is still going strong, making my fingers tingle. Oh my god, what if I broke his nose? Or gave him a serious head trauma?
I skid to a stop next to his knees, offering him a handful of scrunched-up paper towels from my fist. “Here, put this on your nose. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to hit you so hard. Even if you kind of deserved it for just walking into a stranger's house.”
He takes the paper towel from me, but his eyes stay trained on mine. “It's okay, baby girl. I've taken worse hits.”
I stare at his dark brown eyes, the color stark against the bright white covering half of his face. There's something familiar about him. Did I see him at The Wild Boar? I shake my head a few times. No, no way. I’d definitely remember someone like him.
He looks like he walked off of one of those movie sets, the one where it’s a bunch of insanely good-looking people who are playing regular Joes in a small town.
The skin around his eyes wrinkles, like he's smiling underneath all the blood rapidly turning the paper towel red. It's enough to snap me out of whatever haze I was stuck in.
Reality slams down around me with the grace of a hail storm. My heart thumps inside my chest, adrenaline flooding my veins.
“Actually,” I draw the word out, standing up and moving two steps away in an instant. I glance around the room, looking for something I can use as a weapon, which is ironic if I think about it too much. “Whatareyou doing here?”
“The door was open.” His voice is muffled, but he doesn't make any sudden moves. If anything, he reclines against the chaise couch. One leg bent, his elbow resting on it as he tips his head back, his other leg casually straight in front of him. The soles of his black boots are only inches away from my bare feet, the soft pink polish on my toes a sharp contrast.
Black leather and ballerina pink.
The irony of it all is not lost on me. I'm still clutching the roll of paper towel like it's a lifeline, my stomach churning with a mix of fear and adrenaline.
“But that doesn't give you the right to just waltz in like you own the place,” I snap, my voice rising in pitch. I feel off-balance, like I can't get enough air into my lungs.
He tilts his head to the side and pinches the lapel of his leather vest between two fingers, tugging it up so I can see the Reaper patch. Like that's an answer.
I shift my weight to my back foot and glance at the skull and crossbones emblem, noting the rectangular white patch reading Vice President underneath.
“You're one of the Rosewood Reapers?”
My fingers itch to grab my phone. But that's not what surprises me. It's the fact that my knee-jerk reaction was to ask Nova and not Cora.
Probably just because he's a member. Yeah, that's why. Definitely.
He nods, his eyes never leaving mine. “That's right.”
I fold my arms across my chest and move back another step until my calves bump the box behind me. It's full of random trinkets I thought my cousins might want. They chime at the contact, and my shoulders hitch toward my ears as I anticipate the sharp sound of breaking porcelain.
Thankfully, it never comes. I shuffle to the side so I don't break anything or fall, but I end up tripping over a velvet throw pillow shaped like a piece of hard candy.
I yelp, my arms windmilling to keep my balance. My feet get tangled up in everything on the floor, and I pitch to the side. My eyes slam shut, a silly reflex I've had since I was a kid, and I brace for the pain of landing on a collection of hard and sharp-edged things.
But it never comes.
A pair of strong hands settle on either side of my waist, steadying me in an instant.
I gasp, my eyes flying open and seeing the vice president of the Rosewood Reapers on his knees in front of me.
My heart pounds, and I'm a little embarrassed. But then his hands smooth over my sides, and my gaze snaps to his hands. They settle more firmly on the natural curve of my hips, and I have the strangest thought like they belong there.
I let myself follow the line of his arm, appreciating the way the veins pop against his colorful tattoos of each nearly-full sleeve. His shirtsleeves strain against his biceps, like he's never missed a day at the gym.
My mind drifts to wonder what else he could bench press with muscles like that. My gaze slides over the lapel of his kutte, up his tanned throat, where I see the black edges of a tattoo peeking over the collar. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows, and I decide right then and there that such a specific part of anatomy doesn't have any right being so attractive and alluring.
“Mrs. Carter was a friend of the club, so I check on the place sometimes.” His voice comes out all low-pitched and gravelly.
Or maybe that's because he's quite literally on his knees in front of me. Hands banded around the sides of my hips, closer to my belly button than my ass. But he might as well be touching my bare ass for the way it feels. Warm, possessive, like a brand.
