Page 7 of Keep You Close

And, I mean, fine.

It was a good face.

Like… male model good.

Those cheekbones, a chiseled jaw, and a great, high forehead leading up to some lush dark hair.

But being gorgeous didn’t mean he was any more welcome in my house.

The intruder became alert with a start, his big chocolatey-brown eyes going wide, confused, as he looked at Samson, then me. With my frying pan lifted high like I was going to hit him with it.

I wasn’t going to.

When it came to fight or flight, my system definitely leaned a lot more toward flight.

But I was sure if he tried to attack me, that I could pummel him with it before I ran for my life.

The thing was, he shot up, and the movement made the blanket fall off of him and onto the floor.

And I realized he really wasn’t going to come for me.

Because he looked like he’d just gotten out of the hospital.

A big, bulky cast was peeking out of the leg of his pants, thickening his leg all the way up his thigh. His arm was in a sling. And several of his fingers had little braces on them.

Not only that, but as he tried to shoot up, pain splashed across his face, making him fall back on the cushions, quietly cursing under his breath as he pressed a hand to his ribs.

Despite being an unwanted guest, I felt a pang of sympathy for him as his breath came out of his nose in quick, shallow huffs.

When he finally seemed to relax, I started to speak.

“What are you doing in my house?”

The thing was, though… he asked the same question… at the same time.

“What?” I asked, head jerking back. “What did you say?”

“I said,” he said, voice tight. “What are you doing in my house?”

“Your house?” I asked, looking around, wondering if he was whacked out on pain meds and simply… entered the wrong house by accident. “This is my house.”

“Got a fucking six-inch pile of paperwork in the closet that says otherwise,” he said, glancing over at me with those pretty eyes with all their thick, black lashes around them.

“Listen, sir, I think you might be a little whacked out,” I told him, voice slow like I was speaking to someone particularly dense. “And walked into the wrong house.”

“Sir?” he repeated with a snort.

And, I mean, maybe he was a bit young for a ‘sir.’ But men tended to think you were being condescending if you called them ‘bud’ or ‘hun’ or anything like that.

“How about I call someone for you?” I suggested, this time reaching for my phone, and pulling it out. Though I still wasn’t letting go of the frying pan. “Who would you like to call?”

“The police. To get this chick and her dog outta my damn house,” he said.

“Listen, sir—“ I started again, losing my patience with him little by little. I was tired and hungry and just wanted to be alone.

“Atlas,” he cut me off. “My name is Atlas Rivers. And this is my house.”

“Look, Atlas,” I started, “this is my… wait,” I said, brows pinching. “Did you say Rivers?”

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