Page 22 of Branded
Without making eye contact and disappearing directly into my office, closing the door, and breathing easy because I hadn’t had to people.
But as I got closer, I recognized the rumbling.
Or rather, who was rumbling.
And my pulse began tap-dancing in my veins.
Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t?—
I looked.
Right into the lounge area, the kitchen deserted behind Smitty, the lights on, but dimly because he was the only one in the space.
And he was muttering and cursing and tearing his hands through his hair.
God, he was big.
I shouldn’t have forgotten that, not with how he’d knocked me down the day before (hell, my hip was still sore and reminding me that I wouldn’t be able to hold my own against him on the ice, or off it). I shouldn’t have forgotten how big he was, not with how he towered over me at the party or in the hall.
But what really drove his size home?—
And yes, my eyes went to a certain location, and that location was something that I assumed was equally as large as the rest of him.
Not that I could see it.
Oh, what a girl wouldn’t give for X-ray vision.
Was that too much to ask for?
Just one little peek to satisfy my curiosity and then moving on.
He shifted and I jumped, realized I was staring at his crotch, and jerked my gaze back up to what had caught my focus after the muttering and before the dick considering—Smitty was big. Thankfully, he was too distracted by the computer in his lap to have noticed me stopping and doing all that dick considering, too distracted now to see me staring over at him.
But…I’d sat in those chairs.
They weren’t the normal family room variety.
They were made for big guys.
And he practically overflowed the pale brown leather armchair.
How?
Which so didn’t matter, I knew. Definitely didn’t have any bearing on my current life. Shouldn’t even be in my thoughts, considering I was trying to erect plenty of distance between us.
Shaking my head, I started to move on.
Would have moved on.
If I hadn’t heard…
“Come on, you fucking idiot, this shouldn’t be this hard.”
Quiet. Hissed words.
Directed at himself.
But they might as well have been directed at me. God knew, I’d heard similar ones often enough, had felt the barbed words slice through me.
