Page 26 of Fierce Lies
He arched a brow as he eyed the reindeer on the front, the corner of his lip quirking.
"'Merry kiss-my-ass?' I don't know how I feel about that." That smirk spread, and my cheeks burned as I shook my head.
Why was this hot-as-hell guy in my kitchen? Why was I this stupid sometimes? And why was I enjoying it?
"Ivy got it for me," I said quickly. "She thought it was hilarious. But it's the only thing I have that might fit you, since your shirt and jacket…" I closed my eyes, wishing I could dig my way out of this deepening hole.
"Right, well, thank you."
I opened my eyes just as he turned away and began unbuttoning his shirt. The heat in my cheeks only intensified when I realized he intended to change right there.
I turned away partially, turning on my phone to distract myself, but I couldn't help it as I glanced out of the corner of my eye. He tugged his soaked shirt off, hanging it over his jacket, and revealed the back of a man who never missed the gym and had an addiction to tattoos. But also one of a man who'd survived what looked like hellfire.
His back was a map of pain and survival.
Charred lines etched across broad muscles like lightning frozen in skin—some silvery and smooth with time, others still holding the dusky pink of half-healed wounds and tinged with the black ink of his tattoos, warping them. The burns fanned out from one side, as if something had exploded behind him, or as if he'd stood between hell and someone else on purpose.
It wasn’t grotesque. It wasterrible, yes, but in the same way war-torn statues are terrible. Ruined and beautiful. Powerful.
Just what had he endured and survived?
I averted my eyes as he pulled on the sweater, and I picked up his mug, making sure to not reveal that I had glimpsed his battle scars.
What was his story? I so badly wanted to know now.
"Barely fits," I noted as I turned to him once he faced me, holding out a mug for him. I couldn't stop the silly grin at howridiculous he looked in the sweater, the one that swamped me but barely contained him.
"It'll do." He accepted his coffee, our fingers almost touching again as he took it. His eyes met mine, and for a moment, neither of us moved.
Was this actually one o f those moments? A moment where?—
My phone buzzed on the counter, breaking the moment. I glanced at it as I stepped closer.
The text message preview made my blood run cold as a shiver rippled through me.
It was from Trent Simpson, my PI.
Can't continue investigation. Situation too risky. Powerful people involved. Don't contact me again.
I opened the message, grateful that Jackson had sat down at the dining table as I read over the message once more, my stomach knotting.
"Everything okay?" Jackson asked as he sipped his coffee.
"It's my mom," I lied as my heart lurched. "She's not feeling well."
"I'm sorry to hear that." His expression was unreadable. Was he buying it?
My heart hammered in my chest. "I should probably call her." I wanted to know what the hell was going on.
"Of course." Jackson set down his barely touched coffee. "I should get going anyway. Thanks for the coffee."
"Right." I managed a weak smile as he rose. A part of me wanted to urge him to stay and at least finish his coffee, but the other wanted to cal Trent right away. "Thank you for the ride. I really appreciate it."
He nodded. "See you tomorrow, Elena. I'll return the sweater."
"No need, looks better on you," I said before I could stop myself.
Thankfully, he just gave me an amused nod before he gathered his wet clothing and headed for the door.
