Page 20 of Walking Red Flag

I whirled around, my black hair swirling with me, and stared at the man behind me.

“I…” I started to say, but recognition hit, and my voice fell off.

It was him.

The man that’d saved me last night from Asher.

I opened my mouth, then closed it, unable to get words out.

“See you’re lookin’ a little better today than you were last night. All those tears made your face really red and blotchy, and the mascara that was melting down your face wasn’t the best look…” he rumbled.

I snorted, unable to stop myself. “No, I’m not a very pretty crier.”

“No.” He chuckled. “You aren’t.”

He came up to me then, offering me his hand.

I took it, amazed by just how large it was.

Last night when I’d extended mine to his, I hadn’t been thinking about how big his hand was, or how masculine. I didn’t notice the roughness of his calluses or the way his fingers felt so damn strong.

I’d been thinking about getting away from Asher and nothing else.

But today, when fear wasn’t overpowering me, I could take in all the features I’d skipped over last night.

The man was tall, as in well over six foot.

He was very muscular, and the way his white t-shirt stretched over those muscles was nothing short of delicious.

He had abs. Abs that I could see through a hole in his white t-shirt.

Not a big one, but enough of a hole that I could see definition.

His jeans were well worn. Both with the way he wore them—my god, he could fill out a pair of jeans—and the way they looked like they’d been worn so many times that they were one wash away from being unwearable.

He had on brown work boots that had wood dust in the crevices, and my goodness, the size of his feet…

“I’m sorry. For last night. I was a little distraught,” I said to cover up my perusal of his delectable body.

Fresh off a breakup, and I was already eating someone up with my eyes.

Though, you’d have to be fuckin’ dead not to eat this man’s body up.

“It’s okay,” he returned. “I think that you’re allowed to be distraught when you’re being rode around on a bike going way too fast for your comfort. He gives the rest of us a bad name.”

“Well, Mr. Clayborne, you’ll be happy to know that my brothers will kill him if he ever comes close to me again, so I’m good,” I shared.

The way he flashed me a swift smile had my heart thumping hard in my chest.

“I would hope so,” he stated. “And call me Cutter.”

“Cutter,” I said. “My name is Milena Semyonov.”

He grinned. “I know.”

“Oh.” I hit my forehead with my hand. “Last night. You probably got that, didn’t you?”

“I did,” he said as he turned to survey the space. “What’s your budget?”

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