Page 7 of Desperate Actions

And fuck, is he gorgeous.

Not just in the conventional way, though there’s plenty of that—tall and broad-shouldered, his body carved from the kind of discipline most men dream of but never attain.

Dark, tousled hair that always looks a little messy, like someone’s had their hands in it. It makes me jealous to think about that.

How many women have been lucky enough to touch him?

I work hard to push those thoughts away and focus on him instead.

He’s got amazing features.

A jaw so sharp it could cut glass, kissed by the barest hint of stubble.

His nose is straight. Like his teeth. Perfect and brilliant white.

And his eyes—hazel green, wrapped in a ring of amber flame.

They shouldn’t exist in real life.

Eyes like that belong in myths, in stories of gods and monsters.

He’s everything a man should aspire to be.

And one hundred percent out of my league.

Yet I can’t stop watching him.

It’s stupid.

I’m too young to catch his eye.

Too soft in all the wrong places.

Too green, too inexperienced.

I won’t say I’m dumb, because I’m not.

Having dyslexia meant years of battling not just words on a page, but the voices in my head telling me I wasn’t good enough.

Grade school bullies didn’t need to remind me—I already doubted myself. I already wondered if I was broken.

But I learned. I grew.

With the help of my parents, my tutors, my sheer stubbornness, I refused to let it define me. I worked harder, pushed myself further. I won.

I don’t let those thoughts in my head anymore.

But Sammy?

Sammy is in a class of his own.

He’s brilliant.

He went to Princeton. Made the Dean’s List frequently.

Then he walked away from it all and joined the Marines.

Not just that—he was picked for classified duty, spending years buried in the kind of work most people pretend doesn’t exist.

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