Page 38 of When Hearts Remember

Gritting my teeth, I glare at the crate in front of me.

I’m not fucking helpless.Teenage Lexy may have been helpless, but adult Lexy isn’t. The familiar lava surges up my chest. The world may have moved on without me, but I’m going to do my damned best to catch up.

Starting with this damn box jump.

The burst of anger propels me to run toward the crate at a breakneck speed, ignoring my uneven gait.

I swing my arms back for leverage and momentum.

My feet lift off the carpet.

Land, Lexy. Land on that damn crate.

My breath freezes mid-inhale as I watch my feet rise and rise, almost clearing the height of the crate.

But I fall short.

My right toe stubs against the edge and I know I’m screwed. My body pitches backward, my arms flailing as a cry rips from my lips.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I brace for the floor.

But it never comes.

Instead, a wall of heat sears me from behind, followed by muscular arms wrapping around my waist.

A burst of leather and amber hits my nose.

“Easy there.”

That deep, raspy voice. Two simple words. The masculine scent. They’re familiar. A shiver rolls down my spine.

Slowly, he sets me on the ground, the sinuous graze of my backside along his front lighting my nerves on fire.

“You need to take care of yourself better. Think about the people who love you.” There’s a hard edge to that voice now and I turn around, finding myself staring at the handsome face of Ethan Anderson.

A sharp pain stabs my head and I wince—I don’t understand why I react this way to him…this cold, intense…stranger.

His slate-gray eyes flash and his brows pinch into a severe frown. “You hurt yourself, didn’t you?”

The molten lava, which has subsided momentarily, comes rushing back—indignation straightening my back.

Narrowing my eyes, I fling him off me and back away. “What’s it to you? I don’t know you that well, so save me a lecture.”

He flinches, a flash of pain appearing in those stormy gray eyes.

But it’s gone as quick as it appeared. A mirage.

Ethan stalks toward me, his tall frame poured into an expertly tailored deep navy suit, crisp white shirt, and a burgundy tie. His dark hair is carefully tousled, not a strand out of place, and an enticing five-o’clock shadow peppers his jawline.

My pulse ratchets up as I stumble backward. Involuntarily. A prey in the presence of a predator. He looks every inch the brooding, cold numbers king I’ve heard so much about.

An Anderson, from one of the richest families in the country.

How is this guy, who looks like he eats interns for breakfast and prides himself with his impeccable control, best friends with my sleeve of tattoos, leather jacket wearing, motorcycle riding rebel of a brother?

The backs of my shoes hit an exercise bench and I waver.

“You need to watch where you’re going, Alexis. You’re recovering. Can’t you take better care of yourself for the sake of everyone around you?”

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