Page 33 of The Woman with the Target on her Back (Grassi Family)

“In longevity studies, people whose lives are simply more active live longer and healthier lives than those who just workout on occasion,” I said. “What?” I asked, catching a look that crept across his face.

“Let me guess, you’re a documentary fan.”

“And podcasts. Is something wrong with that?” I asked, glaring at his profile.

He turned so fast that there was no stopping the gasp that escaped me as we stood at one of the landings.

“Everything isn’t a fucking dig at you, Trav. Why do you have to take everything I say with offense?” he asked, pinning me with those delicious eyes of his.

Delicious?

Ugh, yeah, they were.

I couldn’t even lie to myself and say they weren’t.

The man was uncommonly good-looking.

And there was nothing wrong with me noticing that. I was a human with eyes, after all. It didn’t mean I was, you know, attracted to him.

Except, God, he was really freaking close. And for some reason, it felt like he was sucking all the air out of the enormous stairwell.

“Are you really going to stand there and act like you don’t constantly poke at me?”

“Maybe if you didn’t rise to the bait each time…” he said, shrugging.

“So, you start shit, and I’m supposed to be the sweet, demure, non-confrontational proper lady and take it?”

To that, August snorted.

“No, baby, no one is ever going to call you any of that.”

“Then why—“

“Maybe I just like fighting with you,” he said.

“That’s completely ridiculous,” I said, narrowing my eyes at him.

“Is it?” he asked, suddenly towering over me, backing me against the wall, forcing me to crane my neck up to keep eye contact with him.

“Yes,” I said, but my voice came out oddly breathless. “No one likes fighting with people.”

“Well, that can’t be true since I like fighting with you.”

“Clearly, you are a little out of your… what are you doing?” I asked when his hand lifted, his fingertip teasing over my cheek.

“You get flushed when you’re pissed off,” he told me. “Makes a man wonder if you flush when you’re a different kind of passionate too,” he said, his voice going lower, smoother. Gooey, creamy chocolate, that was what it was. And I’d always had a sweet tooth.

“Well, you’re never going to find—“ I started to object.

But then his hand was moving, framing my jaw, his gaze holding mine. Just for a beat. Two. Then his lips were claiming mine.

There was nothing soft or sweet about it, either.

It was hard and rough, almost punishing, bruising.

And, well, that was exactly how I liked it.

Damn him.

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