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My heart beats so hard, it feels like it's going to fly right out of my chest, like it's a trapped bird, desperate to flee its cage.
My gaze bounces from one of his eyes to the other, looking for some kind of understanding, a spark of recognition.
But his eyes are bottomless pools of intensity, offering me nothing. No, that's not right. They're giving me a peek into the depths of his possession. I don't know how else to explain it, but that's exactly how it feels. I keep waiting for him to say something, but the silence stretches between us, neither one of us jumping in to break it.
Nana Jo didn't raise a chicken though, so I roll my shoulders back—as much as I can when he's still holding me like that—and dive in.
“What did you say?” Okay, so it comes out more of a murmured question than any kind of accusation, like someone might have if a seemingly random stranger just called them baby girl.
But even though my brain says he’s definitely a stranger, my body begs to disagree. And my heart is too busy recovering from the adrenaline surge to weigh in.
He stares at me for a beat before he blinks. It's a slow sweep of his lashes, and when he opens them, it's like he's erased it somehow. He lets his hands slide over my hips. It lasts a single second before he's pushing to his feet.
I swallow, my throat suddenly dry. If I thought him on his knees was seductive, it's ten times more to have him towering over me like this.
Lips pursed a little, brows low over his eyes—eyes that are busy raking over every inch of me. I swear I can feel his gaze like a soft caress. Broad shoulders filling my vision and nearly blocking the sunlight of the room behind him.
His dark hair falls forward, and if he shifts forward just a little bit, we'd be touching. Somehow the fact that we aren't touching heightens everything. The inch of space between us feels charged with unspoken claims and swelling desire.
He clears his throat and takes a big step backward. He bends down to snag the forgotten bunch of paper towels and wipes along the side of his nose.
I point my index finger toward him, circling it around the air a bit to encompass his face. “I'm sorry about that, by the way.” I wince, my shoulders hiking toward my ears for a second. “But also, notthatsorry, because you did walk in my house and scare the hell out of me.”
He laughs, this low chuckle that rumbles around the room. “It's fine. Bleeding's stopped, it's not broken. No harm.”
I nod, a single strong dip of my chin. “Well, good. So, what did you say? A few minutes ago?”
He glances away for a moment, the laughter sliding off his handsome face. He brings his gaze back to mine, and I already know he's going to lie. It's written all over his face. More precisely, it's the way he carefully arranges it to this blank, sort of neutral look.
“I said 'I caught you.'“
My brows sink low over my eyes, a grin tugging at the corner of my lips. I'm not sure what amuses me more: the fact that it's really him or that he's lying. That is definitelynotwhat he said.
I incline my head toward him, folding my arms across my chest. Curiosity wraps around me like a warm blanket, and I'm content to see how this all plays out.
“Well, thanks. I would've definitely fallen and probably broken Nana Jo's collection of”—I hike a thumb over my shoulder, toward the stuff on the floor—”special vases.” My voice trails off and both of us look at the six vases to my right. Six distinctly phallic-shaped vases.
He grunts, his lips twitching. “Mrs. Carter had eclectic taste.”
“We liked to go to estate and yard sales together. Sometimes we would see who would find the most, uh,eclecticthing.” I tilt my head to the side, letting my arms fall to my sides. “And Nana Jo was competitive when the mood struck.”
He nods slowly, his lips doing that twitching thing again. “I'll bet.”
“You said she was a friend of the club? What does that mean? How did you know my grandma?”
He slips his left hand in the pocket of his jeans. “It's a small town, and Mrs. Carter had been here a long time.”
“Her whole life,” I interject with a slow nod.
“Well, I don't know how much you know about the Reapers, but we take care of everyone here in Rosewood,” he says.
My mind flashes back to the episodes of that motorcycle show I binged on. Are they some kind of vigilante justice group? I look at him with a new understanding.
I press the inside of my cheek between my molars as I realize something. “So I should expect more Reapers to walk right in my house?”
He tenses, his whole body freezing for a second. “I'll make sure they know you're here.”
I don't know what I was expecting, but whatever it was, his response wasn't it. I expel a breath and force a small smile.
