I’m midway through my workout, sparring an invisible partner, when I see a dark blot on the web of trees in front of me. Man-sized. Moving. My pulse screeches to a halt, then tumbles into wild staccato. For a sickly long second, my head buzzes and I feel like prey. Then my self-defense training kicks in.
I draw a slow, purposeful breath into my lungs and force my fear-numb limbs to keep on moving through the motions of my workout. My eyes size up the shadow and a bolt of fear shoots through me.
God, he’s big. Like Sasquatch big. And shit, still moving toward me. My fear is cold, could freeze me. I refuse to let it. I modify my form, and like a figure skater or a gymnast performing an advanced routine, I work myself into a sparring sequence, each move chosen specifically for its ability to lead into a kick.
I’m whirling so fast I lose track of him for split seconds at a time, but I’ve always been good at tracking moving targets, so even brief glimpses of him tell me he’s still moving my way. Fuck. My body flushes, head to toe.
I’m going to have to nail him and run!
When there are maybe eight feet between us, I pause for half a second, double-checking my left ankle before I jump into a modified roundhouse kick.
He’s tall, and I’m not as limber as I once was due to the surgerized ankle, but I can still jump pretty high. High enough so my right foot makes a hook over his head, catching him just over his left ear.
It’s not until he staggers back, his face twisted, his big hand clawing at the air beside his face, that I notice his hair.
Dark, curly hair; a nice jawline. My heart stutters as I note the dark, thick brows, the luscious lips…
He mutters, “Fuck,” and heat pours through me.
My new neighbor.
Holy shit.
SIX
Gwenna
His fingers sink into his hair, and blood spills down his forehead.
His face is screwed into a wince. His eyelids seem to quiver in the bluish light, like someone squinting in the bright sun. As I watch, he pulls them slowly open.
He looks zoned. His hand moves in his hair, and another rivulet spills down his temple, dripping down onto his cheek.
Oh. My. God.
“I am so sorry!” My mouth reacts before the rest of me is ready to, so there’s this strange half-second where we both seem frozen. I’m too scared to step forward and touch him, and he’s not moving my way either.
After just the briefest glance at me, he looks down at his chest, pulls his hand out of his hair, and starts unbuttoning his shirt. A camo shirt. The buttons must be the snap type, because he yanks one side of the shirt, and it gapes open. But it’s hung up on…a gun strap?
There’s a gun strap slung diagonally across his chest.
He was hunting.
Jesus, Gwen.
I feel slightly nauseated as I watch him lift the strap over his head. Another drop of blood lands on his cheek.
I step forward, arms out, my sweaty, shaking hands turned palms-up. “Can I help?”
His face, still slightly tight, morphs as his lips curve and his stark cheeks round a little. Blue-gray eyes find mine. His smile—or smirk—makes me feel weaker than I do already.
And then he laughs, a low, rough chuckle. “I don’t think so, Splinter.”
Holy hell, his voice is dark: an earthy rumble I feel like a push to the center of my chest. I inhale to get my balance, but I can’t stop the goose-bumps on my skin or the pleasant echo I feel low in my belly.
I watch, dumbstruck, as he pulls his right arm from its shirtsleeve, slings the gun strap over his shoulder, and slips free of the shirt, revealing the vast, tatted expanse of the most chiseled slab of muscle I have ever seen in all my life.
Just the sight of that…perfection makes me pulse between my legs. Somewhere, I’m aware that he’s balled up his shirt and he is pressing it against his head, but my brain is broken.