Page 8 of Burning Daylight
I nearly die, and the universe rewards me with a jawline sharp enough to finish the job.Typical.
The remnants of adrenaline makes my hands shake. There’s no doubt that he just saved my life, so that must be why I can’t. Stop. Staring.
I expect him to stand up. To say something, or—I don’t know—doanything, but he doesn’t.
Instead, he grins. Dimples indent his angular cheeks as he blinds me with his smile, and his jawline somehow sharpens further.
Ugh, of course eventhatlooks good.
When his gaze drags over me, my skin flushes.
I roll my shoulder back and wince when a pulsing ache stabs at the joint, but I ignore the pain, flattening my expression, like he doesn’t faze me at all.
He stretches out, ankles crossed, leaning back on his elbows. His hoodie falls open just enough to flash a white tee and a silver chain, and his hair is so artfully messy, there’s no way he doesn’t spend as much time as me getting ready in the morning.
His grin turns into a full-blown smile as I catalogue his features.
Like there’s nothing he’d rather be doing than getting picked apart by my gaze.
“Who are you?” I ask, lifting my chin in that practiced Calloway fashion.
He quirks a brow, his tongue swiping across his lower lip. “I’m the guy who just saved your life. Who areyou?”
I frown. I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or genuinely clueless. “You don’t know?”
Regret hits the second the words leave my mouth. I sound cocky, but I’m not trying to. It’s just unusual for someone in Rosebrook to not know Craig and Martha’s only daughter.
He stands, brushing off his jeans, that grin of his lifting higher like I’m the most amusing thing in the world. “Wow. Gorgeousandhumble.”
“No, that’s…” I shake my head, color flushing up my neck. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
He slips his hand through his obnoxiously perfect hair, mussing it up even further, and maybe I was wrong about how much time he spends on it.
Does it just naturally fall like that? God, where is the justice?
He steps closer. Too close, actually—the toes of his boots brushing against my Adidas.
My neck cranes as I look up at him, and my stomach tightens.
He’s tall. I’m five-nine, and yet he towers over me.
If I were to write him as a character in my stories, there’s not a single physical attribute I would change.
The only logical conclusion is that he’s a complete douchebag. The world wouldn’t be biased enough to give him a good personalityandmake him one of the hottest guys on the planet. That defies the laws of physics or something.
He leans in, and my stupid heart skips.
“I think the words you’re looking for are ‘thank you,’” he murmurs.
For some reason I can’t force the words out. Maybe because I don’t like strangers telling me what to do.I get enough of that at home.
“You’re not from here,” I deflect.
He sighs, spinning a ring on his finger with his thumb. “That obvious?”
Something about the way his voice dips in defeat makes me feel bad, so I flash him a tiny grin. “A little.”
“At least you’re honest.”
