Page 3 of The Enemy Face Off

Another successful walk completed.

Well, almost completed.

I'm not in the clear yet, and I don't want to jinx it.

Because, you see, there has been one little wrinkle in my early morning walks recently.

And bylittle wrinkle, I mean a certain grumpy NHL-playing goalie with broad shoulders, a stubbled jaw, and piercing greeneyes that do absolutely nothing for me, who I've seen out jogging these past few days and potentially blowing up my entire theory about early morning walkers being the best humans.

Because Milo Payne is most certainly not one of the best humans. He's moody. Grouchy. Arrogant. Oh, and he sports a man bun.

A man bun.

As someone who has faced a great deal of scrutiny over my appearance—especially in my plus-size years—I'm the last person to judge anyone else for theirs, but I can't help how I feel, and there's just something about man buns that makes me shudder. It's like a guy wearing flip-flops when he's not at the beach. It's plain wrong.

I scan the area, but nope, there's no six-foot-something, yummy, broad-shouldered, stubbled-jawed, piercing green-eyed, man-bunned pro hockey player to be found.

Good.

So why does my heart sink a little?

I've been out in the fresh air too long, that's why. All this smiling and talking and interacting with people has messed up my anti-love radar. I need to get home, shower, and scrub all this small-town niceness off of me.

I round the corner onto my street andbam—a moving wall plows into me. I'm saved from crashing into the sidewalk by a pair of strong arms gripping me tightly.

I shake my head out, recovering from the shock.

When I look up, I'm greeted by a pair of piercing green eyes. A stubbled jaw. And with the sunlight illuminating him from behind, a haloed man bun.

"Are you okay, Beth?"

I haven't heard him speak a lot, but I'd recognize that deep timbre of his voice anywhere. And for a split second, I thought Iheard a trace of concern in his tone. It matches the intense gaze in his eyes as he studies my face.

He's probably just worried I'll sue him for mowing me down.

"I'm fine," I say, brushing his hands off me.

He releases his grip but keeps his hands hovering a few inches away from me as I straighten, like he's keeping them there as a backup in case I stumble.

No. It's not that. It can't be that. It's probably so I don't sue him for further damages.

"I'mfine," I repeat once I'm steady on my feet and swat his hands away from me.

"All I was doing was trying to help you," he grumbles, his tone defensive.

"I don't need your help, thank you very much. Chivalry is dead, in case you haven't heard."

I tilt my head up, and boy, those green eyes are enough to almost make me lose my balance again. They're a striking shade of green, an emerald hue flecked with tiny gold specks that catch in the light.

Butterflies dance in my stomach.

One of my older sisters, Schapelle, is a romance author, and she would have a field day describing those eyes.

Me, a cynical anti-love bookworm, knows better than to get sucked in by a guy with mesmerizing eyes. Those ones are always the biggest trouble.

The dancing butterflies are wasting their time.

"But you're okay?" he checks.

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