which can only be good if I’m feeling as feverish as I do right now.
Here I am, standing in the doorway of my new digs, leaning my shoulder against the doorjamb, jeans only partly zipped, appreciating the view as I contemplate the state of my own raging lust, when into that view walks … down by the pond … a girl.
Shit.
For a second I wonder if she’s paparazzi. The last thing I need is for fans to start camping out in the woods. Or photos of me half naked all over the internet.
It wouldn’t be the first time. Roxie sued some girl over a leaked photo that was taken of me about a year ago. It was eventually removed, but women still mention it to me from time to time. I don’t remember it being taken but apparently it was memorable.
But I can’t see a phone in her hand. Or a camera.
She’s carrying a book.
And she hasn’t seen me yet.
But then, as she walks along the track toward me, she feels my gaze. She looks up at me. And she stops walking.
She’s a distance away and I can’t clearly see all the finer details of her face. It’s enough, though. She’s cute. In fact … hell. She’s dressed in a faded pair of jeans and a white button-down shirt, tied at the waist. Her hair, which is pulled up off-handedly, is a light, vibrant shade of red. It’s what you’d call strawberry blond. The term could have been invented just for her. She’s wearing a pair of black-framed glasses. I find myself wishing she wasn’t. They’re hiding her face. But even from this distance I can see a warm blush coloring her cheeks as she stares up at me.
I imagine what I might look like to her. I glance down out of curiosity. I’m mostly decent. At least I’m partly dressed, even if I am half-cocked. Which can’t be helped. That’s just how I live my life and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.
She’s shocked by my presence. She wasn’t expecting anyone to be here.
Who is she?
Where’s she going?
I want to know.
“Hey,” I yell out, raising my hand in a sort of greeting.
She doesn’t wave back. Or answer me. She walks backwards for a few steps before turning in the direction she came from.
I almost laugh. “Wait.”
She doesn’t.
I zip myself mostly up and I start walking down the hill.
I don’t want to scare her but, fuck, she can’t just wander into my view like that in all her strawberry glory and expect me not to at least want to find out who she is. I’m too amped up to stand there while she walks away.
She follows a trail on the far side of the pond. She glances back to make sure I’m not following her. When she discovers I am following her—and in fact gaining on her in ground-eating strides she’ll have to take off in a full run to possibly escape—she stops and turns to face me, her thick book hugged in front of her chest like a shield.
As I walk closer I can see that, behind her glasses, her large golden eyes are wide.
I exhale a laugh. “Shit. Don’t be scared of me.”
Then again, when you look how this girl looks, all pure and sun-touched and gently studious, maybe she should be scared. I’m tatted up to the nines, built as fuck and wild with lust and life. I probably weigh twice what she weighs. I’m suntanned and barefoot and shirtless.
She checks me out slowly, lingering on the tats on my arms and my chest. My stomach. The way the top button of my jeans still isn’t fastened. To my face. My hair.
I can’t tell if she recognizes me. She’s not fangirling or swooning. There’s a thread of curiosity, like something about me seems vaguely familiar but she can’t quite place it. I don’t want to break that bubble. I don’t want her to freeze or to run.
“I’m sorry,” she says, and I realize I got the wrong impression. She’s not scared. She’s feisty. Ready to fight.
Which makes me smile. The last thing I want to do is fight with this gorgeous little stranger who, now that I get a better look, is not just cute but seriously stunning in an I-wake-up-in-the-morning-looking-like-this kind of way. She’s as natural as the sun-bright hayseeds waving in the wind and her hair is the exact same color. She has long, gold-tipped eyelashes that blink at me from