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Memories from high school, the ones that I locked into a box after Miguel and I broke up, rush back to the surface, making it hard to breathe.
Cheering them on from the bleachers.
Running to the field after the game and jumping into their awaiting arms.
The first time Miguel slipped his jersey over my head.
The heated look in his eyes as he took me in.
His hands cupping my cheeks.
The feel of his rugged fingertips as they caressed my face.
I close my eyes, that familiar ache squeezes my lungs, making it hard to breathe.
Go.My throat bobs as I swallow the lump that has formed there.I need to go.
I shouldn’t have come here in the first place.
There was a reason why I avoided it this whole time.
And now that he was back, it was even more important that I stay away and protect myself. Protect my heart.
My ears are buzzing as I unlock my fingers from the fence and turn around, but all the air is kicked out of my lungs as a hard body connects with mine.
I suck in a sharp breath as I stumble back from the force of the collision, my gaze locking on a pair of familiar brown eyes.
Strong fingers curl around my biceps, and a jolt of electricity courses through me at the contact as I’m yanked forward. Iextend my hand, bracing myself for impact; only my hand touches his chest. His very firm, very naked chest. His hot skin burns my palm, but he’s holding me so close I can’t pull away.
“What the hell are you doing?” I ask, letting out a shaky breath.
“What am I doing?” His eyes narrow as he stares at me. “You bumped into me.”
“I was turning around to go to my car, and you were doing what exactly?”
I let my eyes lower as I take him in—a mistake because he’s wearing a pair of dark basketball shorts and nothing else. His perfectly sculpted chest is glistening with sweat under the late afternoon sun, anddamn, he looks fine. Better than fine, really. Miguel was always muscled, even when we were in high school. I guess it was a mix of conditioning from playing football and helping his dad on the ranch. Back then, he was a man compared to the other guys our age, but seeing him like this shows me just how much of a boy he used to be. But there is nothing boyish about the hunk standing in front of me right now. At six-foot-three inches of pure muscle, he’s towering over me by a good foot. His shoulders are broader, his muscles harder, every line defined to perfection, a machine built to tackle down his opponents, and he doesn’t seem to have a problem showing his body off.
A finger slides under my chin, and he lifts my face up, a cocky smile flashing on his mouth.
“My eyes are up here, Red,” Miguel rasps. His warm touch, in combination with the low and husky voice, makes my stomach tighten and shivers run down my spine. So much so that it takes me a moment to process his words.
Fuck.
I was totally caught staring.
And the asshole knew it.
Color rises up my cheeks, and I curse my redheaded ancestors for making it so easy for people to know how uncomfortable I am.
I shove his hand away, taking a step back, which only makes it easier to stare at his form. His chest is still rising and falling rapidly from running around the field. His shirt is hanging from the back pocket, completely forgotten. A Lonestars ball cap is sitting on top of his head, a pair of headphones covering his ears. As if he can read my mind, he slides them around his neck.
“So, what was exactly the reason you ran into me?” I ask, ignoring his comment.
That smirk grows even bigger because he knows exactly what I’m doing. “I didn’t see you until you were already in my way.”
“Yeah, right. Whatever.” Shaking my head, I spin on my heels, but before I can take a step, his fingers wrap around my hand.
“Wait.”
