Page 26 of Dirty Dix

“Sure. What does the winner get?” I ask, my competitive streak shining through.

Dixon taps his chin, deep in thought. “The winner will be treated to a lavish breakfast by the loser.”

“Well, you already owe me a breakfast, Doc. And I can’t eat two breakfasts in one day.”

Dixon chuckles at my self-assurance. “Okay, let’s make it dinner then.”

“Dinner it is. I hope you’ve saved your pennies, ’cause I’m gonna order the lobster,” I tease, rubbing my hands together.

“We’ll see.” He grins, and I’m thankful he appreciates my bad humor.

“Well, on that note, I better go home and get some beauty sleep. Night, Dixon.” I search through my bag for my keys.

“Where’d you park? I’ll walk you to your car,” he quickly offers.

“It’s okay. I’m just around the corner.”

“Please, I insist,” and before I have time to argue, he’s leading the way.

With a small smile, I follow, feeling strangely happy that this amazingly hot man wants to walk me to my car—a car that I don’t need, but have, thanks to my fears.

We walk in reflective silence as I desperately want to ask him where he was tonight, but it’s not really my business. I mean, we just met. We’re not even really friends, as I hardly know him, but the thing is, I want to. From the moment I met him, there was something there, but I’m sure a man like Dixon isn’t short of female attention, and haswomen, not inexperienced, scarred virgins, to satisfy his needs.

“Everything okay over there?” Dixon asks, disturbing my thoughts.

“Yeah, why?” I ask, suddenly worried my thoughts are transparent.

“You’re awfully quiet, which can’t be a good sign.”

“I was just thinking about where I would like to go for dinner,” I tease, hoping to disguise my insecurities as I sound the alarm on my Fiesta. “Well, this is me. I’ll see you in a few hours.” I fiddle with the strap on my bag, not knowing what to do next.

This is the second time there has been some weird static bouncing between us, and I know he feels it too because he totally just checked out my boobs. But this is not me. I’m not one to feel so comfortable with the opposite sex, or care if they like me or not. But with Dixon, that’s exactly how I feel. And I don’t understand why.

“Well,” he says, clearing his throat. “I’ll see you in the morning,” and I cringe, hoping he doesn’t want me to fist bump him again.

However, he surprises me as he unexpectedly reaches forward and brushes a stray strand of hair off my face. Normally, I wouldshy away, but in this instance, I find myself wanting to lean into his touch. But I don’t.

“Night, Dixon,” I whisper.

“Night, Madison.”

And with that, he turns his back on me, and only then do I breathe.

It’s now 5:30a.m., and I look like utter shit. Why I agreed to such an early morning run, on a Sunday I might add, is beyond me. But I have a feeling Dixon could ask me just about anything and I would say yes.

I’ve dressed for comfort, not style, as I intend to run like the wind across that finish line.

Reaching for my water bottle and keys, I lock the door behind me and make my way downstairs. I hit the pavement at a brisk pace, as it always freaks me out being up this early with no one around. But I’m twenty-three and I’ve decided this is the year I won’t allow the skeletons in my closet to haunt me any longer.

For more than half of my life, I’ve lived with a secret I’ve never told a single soul, not even my mother, who I love more than lifeitself. Even though those secrets can never be told, I feel in some sick, twisted way that they’ve shaped me into the woman I’m determined to become.

Crossing the street, I stop with the nostalgia and focus on finding Dixon. I search the main entrance, but he’s nowhere to be found. Maybe he’s running late.

Starting my warm-up, I turn my head to the left to stretch out my neck muscles. From the corner of my eye, I see Dixon. Someone who’s just about to go for a two-mile run shouldn’t look this good, but he does. He’s in loose running shorts and a tight white T-shirt, and although it doesn’t sound like anything special, on Dixon it looks like he’s dressed for runway.

His muscular physique is a lot more obvious now that he’s not wearing a suit jacket and pants, and oh my God, as he stretches his arms above his head, his T-shirt rides up, exposing a hardened slab of sculptured abs and toned obliques. My eyes may have deceived me because he’s a few feet away, but I’m quite certain I saw a hint of ink tattooed on his side.

The thought has my toes curling, as that image has just made Dr. Dixon a truckload sexier.

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