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“Do you live here?” I turn to the sound of the voice—it’s rich and dark.
Almost familiar in a way.
The houses are over-the-top. Three-story mansions all built too close together. It seems weird since the rich and famous usually demand their privacy. I mean, if I were paying millions for a home I sure as shit wouldn’t want my neighbors hearing me fuck.
But this is the lifestyle I know. My father is very successful. Rich beyond measure. And his lifestyle is ostentatious, which means I was raised in a neighborhood similar to this one.
“Do you live here?” the voice asks again, catching me off guard. But I can’t see him.
I hear the rustling of leaves as he moves closer. A huge guy moves out from behind one of the trees on the border of the house. I should be worried. Shouldn’t I? Here I am, standing outside of a party, and no one else is out here except for this man. A man who is stepping closer to me.
“I know how to fight,” I randomly say. Damn, that sounded tougher in my head. But I know it didn’t work when I hear the slight cackle from the man as he takes another step closer.
“You can? And what training do you have?” he asks. The lights from the house haven’t hit him yet, so I still can’t see him clearly, but the close proximity has goosebumps breaking out on my arms.
And why do I know that voice?
“A lot. Martial arts, mainly. But other things too.”
“You don’t know the names of the other things, do you?” Damn him, he caught me.
“I totally do. Boxing,” I throw out. He doesn’t have to know the extent of my boxing abilities is a summer bootcamp class I took my first semester of college. And I failed miserably at it.
“Yes, okay, sure.”
We both go quiet, but I keep my eyes trained on him as he steps closer. The light from the front porch finally begins to reveal the man from the shadows––his bare feet first, followed by his black track suit pants, the way they hug his thick thighs…
When did I become attracted to thighs? As I take in his torso, I realize he isn’t wearing a shirt. His toned, tanned, hairy––but not overly, more like Henry Cavill––chest is on display. I don’t realize I am ogling him until he stops in front of me, and my eyes find his.
“Lottie,” he says.
Oh shit, I do know him.
“Whiskey,” I say on a shallow breath. He smirks and the corner of his lip pulls up, and I’m reminded of my teenage crush on him. I’m twenty-five now, and it’s been seven years since I last saw him. His presence shouldn’t be affecting me this way—not after all these years.
I thought I got over it, but my hands start to sweat, and my heartbeat picks up at just the sight of him.
“Is this your place?”
I shake my head, and he looks past me to the house. I take the seconds to admire his features. His hair, almost mocha in color, is cut shorter than I remember. His sharp jawline is sculpted to perfection, and a light amount of stubble adorns it. That’s when my eyes find his lips. The lips I’ve dreamed about. Damn, he’s gorgeous.
“No.”
It’s all I manage to breathe out. His close proximity limits my ability to speak coherently.
Whiskey is my father’s friend. I briefly met him when I was maybe fifteen. He had just started working for my father. I only saw him around every now and then.
“How old are you?” I ask him, I never really asked before but had always been curious. But he doesn’t look as old as my father, who is now in his sixties.
His eyes turn to find mine. They remind me of whiskey in a glass, fitting really.
“Thirty-eight,” he answers as his eyes continue to roam over me. “Why aren’t you home? I heard you were engaged.” His eyes flick down to my hand.
“No, not engaged,” I tell him, lifting my empty hand. Before I can lower it, he reaches out, grasping my wrist. His fingers move over the ink on my wrist.
“Last time I saw you, you were a good girl. Now here you stand, dressed in leather, and covered in ink. What happened to you, Lottie? I bet Daddy isn’t pleased.” His words shock me.
I pull my hand free, and when I do, I see a glimpse of something. What it is exactly, I have no idea. But a part of me can’t wait to find out.
