Price of a Kiss (Forbidden Men 1)

“Are you okay?” I bit my lip as I looked up, hoping I appeared as apologetic as I felt. But looking at him was always such a distraction. I was so breathless, I probably sounded like a one-nine-hundred operator when I said, “I’m so sorry.”

He had the look of a lifeguard with his lean build but wider upper body and defined muscles covered by some deliciously golden, sunbaked skin. His face was the most appealing feature about him. His incredible tan made the whites of his eyes and his perfect teeth stand out. It also drew more attention to his full lower lip, his dimpled chin underneath, and the gray intensity of his eyes above. Insert dreamy sigh here, because their brilliant pewter color reminded me of a cloudy sky right before a gentle rain shower.

“I’m fine.” He gave me a tight smile. A get-away-from-me-because-you-smell-bad kind of smile.

Oh, God. I repulsed him.

He finally bent down and retrieved the books that had been lying on his feet. When he handed them to me, I mumbled, “Thanks.” I was determined not to bawl in the presence of the gorgeous gigolo I repulsed.

Unintentionally—yes, unintentionally, jeez! —my hand brushed his as I took the books. Sparks of electricity shot up my arm. I gasped and jolted backward, shocked—both literally and figuratively—by the current that crackled between us. It nearly made me drop my books again.

Needing to know if he’d felt it too, I glanced

up and shoved my hair out of my face, only to discover how strained and uncomfortable he appeared. His face had darkened to a dull red as if he were holding his breath to keep from smelling me. Every female instinct in me wanted to reach out and trace the wrinkles in his brow he was making as he frowned.

Must. Soothe. The hottie.

But really, why was he scowling? Did I honestly stink that bad? Or did he just not like making sparks with me?

Both options sucked.

Then it struck me. Maybe he hadn’t felt the sparks. Maybe he thought the way I’d yanked my hand away from his magnetic touch was rude. It would certainly appear rude if he had no idea what was going on in my head, which, wow, he really didn’t have a clue, did he?

Oopsie.

I opened my mouth to apologize, but he turned on his heel and slid into the nearest chair, avoiding me as well as giving me an open path to the exit—so I could leave him alone.

I blinked, deciding he was even ruder than I was. Would a forgiving pat on the arm or a simple it’s-okay, no-big-whoop have killed him? I really was sorry for bumping into him.

“Jerk,” I muttered to myself as soon as I lit out of the classroom and escaped.

Okay, okay, I suppose I could give him the benefit of the doubt. All hotties deserved a second chance, right? So…he might not be a jerk. I had been the one to plow into him and spill a load of books on his feet, and he’d actually been kind enough to bend down and pick them up for me. And just because a guy wasn’t big on the whole communication and I-forgive-you thing or obviously couldn’t smile did not automatically make him a jerk.

But it stung to consider the possibility that he just didn’t like me. Thinking of him as a jerk settled my ego much more nicely.

So, yeah. He was such a jerk face.

I lifted the collar of my shirt and sniffed. Smelling nothing but clean laundry detergent, a hint of my Sweet Pea lotion, and Fresh Breeze deodorant, I scowled. I did not stink.

He was definitely a jerk.

As luck would have it, the rest of my day was spill-free. I didn’t spot Hotness, the jerk face, again. And no one tried to stab me to death.

I’d call that progress.

The weather had warmed considerably since I’d left my above-the-garage apartment that morning. But, wow, was Florida hot and muggy in August, or what? I was so tempted to pull my hair up into ponytail to catch a little breeze that my fingers actually ached with the urge to start gathering stray strands.

Except the scar on the back of my neck was still pretty fresh—only four months old. Every time I checked a reflection of it in my hand mirror, the wound looked dark and ugly. So ponytails were completely out of the question. If too many people saw it and asked questions, I might get caught in one of my lies, and the truth would come out. That couldn’t happen. Ever. So I continued to hide it every day by wearing my hair down.

It was almost four in the afternoon when I returned to my new home.

Aunt Mads and Uncle Shaw had been amazing to let me stay there. I had been worried, what with Jeremy’s nasty death threat hanging over my head, that everyone would push me away as if I had the plague. I was dangerous to be around. But the Mercers had taken me in when I’d needed them the most. Plus I didn’t have to pay rent, a water bill, electric bill, or heating and air. Life—in that regard—was pretty spectacular.

My book bag weighed down one shoulder as I trooped up the steps outside my aunt and uncle’s four-bay garage. When I reached the top landing, I had to swing the bag’s strap around so I could fish out my apartment key I had tucked away in the front pocket.

Finding it exactly where I’d zipped it this morning, I pulled my key ring free, squinting as the brass surface glinted in the bright daylight, momentarily blinding me until I fit it into the lock and twisted the door open.

As soon as I stepped inside, I jerked to a frozen halt.