Page 5 of Scorching Sienna

The words resonated with me, but I thought it must be coincidental. That someone made a mistake and that the envelope was meant for another person.

With no return address, it sat on a table next to my door for two days, the words etched into my mind as I pondered a new beginning. A new beginning doing what? I never asked myself that before.

Two days later, when I got home after walking to my favorite bookstore down the road, a small red pot with soil was waiting at my front door.

I knew this had to do with the daffodil seeds still sitting in the envelope inside. It took all of five minutes of me staring at it for me to invite whatever this was in. Somewhere deep down, I knew accepting this would be the start of something, but the warning bells were silent.

Someone saw me. And I liked it.

That night, I planted the seeds in the little red pot. It was cathartic. Like physically planting the seeds metaphorically seeded a new beginning in me.

That was the start of the pots. In the weeks since then, my windowsill has been filled with a pot of each rainbow color. After red came orange and then yellow, stopping when we reached violet.

And with each one came a note. A note that resonated with my soul. And mine alone. As if my essence had whispered its secrets to another, and they had answered my call.

It was no coincidence.

Every time my mind wondered who could have infiltrated my very being like that, who could have revived it from its near death, a hoodie-wearing figure with a calming touch was the only person who came to mind.

I also walked the couple of blocks over to check out the gym I was now a member of.

I hated gyms. My last experience walking into the big mainstream one in town put me off completely.

This place, however, was less fancy and smaller, which meant fewer people. Part of its appeal. Admittedly, it was the only thing that interested me three months ago. The thought of doing exercise was off-putting and resonated with me on the same level as submitting a tax return.

As I was about to turn around and walk out, a small red pot on the reception counter caught my attention. The words new beginning and rebirth floated around in my mind, and I thought, if that isn’t a sign, then I don’t know what is. I joined then and there and haven’t looked back.

I look at my watch, my eyes floating to the entrance as I hop on thetreadmill at the back of the gym, facing the boxing bags—my favorite time of the day.

Little critters, now permanent residents in my stomach, start their little flurry of movement, excitedly anticipating what will come.

He walks in at precisely five minutes past seven, his tall frame casting a shadow across the floor as he enters. His head dips in greeting as he passes one of the regulars lifting weights. I have never heard him talk. But I have imagined it in my fantasies—the hoodie stranger and him merging in my dreams.

I’m not surprised. The similarities are uncanny. That stranger in the club is the same height and size as this guy. They also both have tattoos on their hands. While I couldn’t speak to the rest of my club mystery man, the one my eyes are glued to appears to be covered in them.

I try to keep my eyes low as he removes his hoodie, the throb in my core intensifying as delicious skin and muscle are revealed. I don’t like tattoos on anyone. I love tattoos on him.

While some women liked extremely muscular men, my taste was this man's physique exactly. Wholly unaware until my eyes landed on him three months ago, and I nearly face-planted on the treadmill.

Tall, lean, muscular. Not overboard. His big hands looked like they could crush a man's skull or grip a throat firmly like some of my book boyfriends do.

With effort, I drag my eyes up his body, finally landing on the pièce de résistance. That face. Damn. Another critter does a jig in my stomach as I shamelessly stare.

The more I have looked at it over the last couple of months, the more attractive it is. However, some might disagree and call me crazy. The scar starts at the bridge of his nose and curves down and along his cheekbone, ending on the side of his face, like a long, flattened-out S.

The scarring has faded, so itmust be an old wound.

I’ve made up many stories about how it was inflicted, all dark and dangerous. But those are just made-up. It could have happened in any number of ways, like a car accident or maybe a ski trip gone wrong.

What I would give to know the story. Just looking at him, I can tell not many do. There is a quiet warning in how he holds himself and the unapproachable aura he wears, like the mark of a black widow.

As easily as I flicked the small bug off my jersey this morning, that warning flies off into the distance, landing with a plop amongst the self-preserving fear, which also seems missing in action lately.

His lip twitches and his gaze flicks over, meeting mine. I burn from the outside in as my heart ceases to pump much-needed blood. Panicking at being caught, I do the only thing I can and offer a small smile. One that is not reciprocated. Where is my shovel? I need to dig a bigger hole.

I look away, my ears even pink from the heat of my embarrassment while I can still feel his eyes on me. Only when I hear the familiar sound of flesh meeting vinyl do I venture another look. Because I just don’t learn, and like an addict, I cannot help myself.

He doesn’t use gloves. His massive hands are balled into fists that pound the boxing bag over and over again—the familiar sound echoed in the throb that forms between my legs.

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