Calculated Risk (Blackbridge Security #5) - Marie James Page 0,3
is massive. Yeah, he’s got sexy tattoos and a glorious beard, but he also looks to be more than twice my size. He looks dangerous and angry, and that doesn’t appeal to me one bit.
Parker is wrong about not having a type. I do have a type, sort of. Although my dating life has been limited, more so in the last couple of years, I’ve always ended up in relationships with clean-cut professionals. Other than the short-lived crush I had on David Beckham years ago, rugged, tattooed men never really turned my head. This guy, Quinten Lake, looks like someone I would run from, not flirt with.
“Do you have everything you need?” Parker asks, making me realize I was staring at his picture on my phone for longer than I’d like to admit.
“Need? What the hell do I need? You set this up, not me.”
“Just your driver’s license. Calm down. This is supposed to be empowering, not a punishment.”
I take a deep breath as I climb out of her car. Nerves make my fingers tremble as I wait for her at the front of the car. Maybe the graphic designer on the website photoshopped him to look meaner than he actually is. I mean, wouldn’t it draw in more customers if the guy teaching the class looked like a serious badass?
The guy at the front counter of the business looks nothing like the man on the website, I observe as Parker signs us in.
“Just through there, ladies,” the clerk says, pointing to a door off to the side.
Several pairs of expectant eyes look up at us when we enter, and with the way they handled the marketing on their website, I’m not surprised to find nothing but women in the room. The surly guy is missing as we take our seats and wait for the class to start.
I’m calming down, feeling a little more comfortable that we’re in a classroom setting rather than in a concrete room with guns lying all around.
Parker, being the social person that she is, starts a conversation with the woman on her right, and before long they’re both snickering about how hot these guys are. All conversation comes to a halt when the door opens and a man walks in.
If anything, the graphic designer played down this guy’s size. He’s massive, his build beyond imposing. His jet-black hair is cut short, but still somehow styled nicely. His dark beard is nearly long enough to brush his t-shirt as he walks up to the front of the classroom while looking down at a piece of paper in his hands.
When he looks up scanning the room, the contrast of his bright blue eyes makes me feel exposed. I clear my throat, straightening in my seat as his face turns in our direction.
“Welcome,” he grunts to his captive audience. “We’re going to start with roll call, then we have some paperwork to get out of the way before we get started on the class.”
His voice is rough and gravelly, but instead of it making me feel uncomfortable, I find myself a little entranced as he calls out the names on the list.
“Hayden,” Parker says with a nudge to my side.
“Hayden Prescott?” he says, and I can tell by his tone that it isn’t the first time he’s read my name from his list.
“Present!” I snap, raising my hand with awkwardness.
He frowns in my direction before moving his gaze slightly to my right to focus on Parker.
Why all of a sudden do I feel like I should shove her out of her chair and kick her under the table?
“And who are you?” the man all but growls.
Parker preens a little, a vibrant smile spreading across her face. “I’m Parker Maxwell. I’m Hayden’s best friend. It’s nice to meet y—”
“You’re not on my list,” he interrupts.
“I signed in at the front.” Parker’s smile doesn’t fade.
“If you’re not on the list, you can’t join the class. Did you get an email confirmation?”
“I didn’t personally sign up for the class. I’m here with Hayden.”
“This class is only for confirmed attendees.” He keeps his eyes locked on her, both of them not speaking until it becomes so awkward that the other women in the room begin to shift uncomfortably in their seats. “You need to leave so we can get started.”
Now that pretty, practiced smile slides off my friend’s face.
“Let’s just go,” I mutter as I begin to stand from my seat.
“You don’t have to leave, Ms. Prescott,” the man says.