Page 61 of Red Flags Only

His eyebrows raise as he faces me, pointedly not looking at the letter. “Yes?”

Ah. Well. Now that he’s ready for it.

I clear my throat. Stare at his nose. Wonder how, exactly, I’m going to get the courage to ask him this.

“Lyra?” he asks. “Are you okay?”

“Do you know how you look?” I blurt, eyes darting to the wide expanse of his chest, then back up.

He blinks. “Do I know how I look?” he asks.

I nod, pressing my lips together. “Yes.”

His head tilts. “I don’t know what you mean.”

I worry my lip, afraid of what might happen should I have to expand on the question. Then, in a stroke of genius, I wave a hand at him. “That.”

Eloquence is my middle name.

His brows furrow, and he shoots a cursory glance downat his own body.

My eyes follow his, getting further than they previously have, coasting over his belly and reaching the point where his jeans rest against strong hips before I jerk them away, my cheeks on fire.

“Ah,” Jove deadpans. “That. Very clarifying, the wordthat.”

I inspect his face, looking for any signs of false humility.

Sadly for me, Jove does not appear to have a single clue what I mean.

I muster up the courage to be a little more specific in the hopes of sparing me the task of immortalizing the words of his attractiveness on paper forever – then sending it to him, a true nightmare. “That you’re hot,” I manage to say before my already burning face scorches. My phone digs into my hand as I grip, ready to call the fire department should the situation worsen.

Jove’s face blanks. Fully, one percent blanks. “No,” he says. “Could you expand on that?”

I squawk. “No!” Not out loud, anyway. It’s bad enough I’ll have to write it. “Sorry! Go back to your movie!”

“I really don’t think I want to,” he says.

“Too bad!” I yelp, twisting back to my letter. “Very busy! Movie time!”

Slowly, reluctantly, he turns to the movie.

Slowly, reluctantly, I start writing.

It has come to my attention that you are somehow unaware of the appealing nature of your outer shell. According to a list I very expertly sourced, I must now inform you of your own looks. Because apparently a mirror has failed to do the job these past 29years.

Ahem.

You are, to be frank, the hottest man on earth.

All the women in town talk about it. At length. Often. Some of the men, too. And they haven’t even seen you without your shirt on. They’d probably drop dead, honestly. You somehow manage to be the exact right blend of strong and cuddle-able that women want. Truly, the only thing fending them off is your complete disregard for the law and your absolute disinterest in anyone who has ever braved approaching you with an offer for, if not love, then a foray into lust with them.

Beyond your height, breadth, and strength, you have that face. The jaw and the nose and those green, green eyes.

My goodness, Jupie, your face.

It’s like… it’s like a statue and a painting and a movie star got smashed together and you popped out. Then you went and put that streak in your hair, adding a totally cool factor when you already looked totally freaking cool, and it’s just… honestly, I’m unsure how you’re allowed to walk around unsupervised. It can’t be safe for anyone.

And here I am without the safeguard of not knowing about your care or your thoughtfulness. I look at your face, see its beauty – see the beauty beneath – and I’m helpless, really.

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