Hold On

“Have you lost your fucking mind?” He seethes in a low tone so the Newral guys don’t hear.

A beat passes, but I shake my head and give him the truth.

“Yeah. Without a doubt..”

Two

Emmy

“NO PROBLEM WITH YOUR appetite.” I watch as Buddha licks his lips, then his empty bowl, before looking up at me with droopy, sorrowful eyes. “Nope, sorry, chunky monkey, no more. You could stand to lose a few pounds.”

His slobbery pink tongue makes one more swipe around his mouth before he concedes defeat, ambling away and settling onto one of the many dog beds scattered around the house.

I’ve already taken him for a long walk, played with him out in the back yard, and now given him his dinner. But I still don’t want to leave.

From the moment Marshall opened the front door this morning and nearly knocked me down with those shimmering gray eyes, I’ve felt like all the colors of the world are brighter somehow.

He is by far the most attractive man I’ve ever seen. Dark chocolate-colored hair a bit longer on top but with razor-sharp accuracy around the edges. His broad chest balances perfectly with a height that made me feel like a toddler. His jaw was hard, square…and his lips.

God, I can’t even with those lips.

As soon as he opened the door, a little voice inside me started screaming, kiss me, kiss me, and it took all my power to tune it out and listen to him for the remainder of the interview. Think GQ Hugh Jackman with Dwayne Johnson’s body.

Besides his looks, I’ve never had the scent of someone hit me so hard. It was like coming home, but oh-so-sexy. There was this direct connection to the girliest parts of me, and they’ve been on alert ever since.

When he spoke, his voice was like velvet thunder, moving through me and finding its way deep into my marrow. I think the strangest thing about it all is that besides a crush I had on my sixth-grade math teacher, I’ve never had any of those fluttery sorts of feelings for a man or a boy.

At eighteen, I’ve never even kissed a boy. A man, I mean. Either of them. I’ve never even held hands, which I know is crazy in this day and age, but besides having my nose in a book most of my life, I was always short. Wore thick glasses until I got surgery on my eyes three years ago as a Christmas gift from my grandparents. I was an orphan in my own way as well and became a sort of the designated outcast in my school.

Eventually, I became more of a joke than a human when it came to my classmates, which only pushed me farther into my shell. And honestly, I didn’t mind that so much. Books take me places most people will never go.

But my books never took me anywhere like this. Marshall’s house is beyond amazing. I don’t know how much land he owns, but there are no neighbors close enough that I can see. There is even a sandy beach out back that borders Lake Lenora, a lake so big I can’t see the other side.

The interior is all sleek lines and warm cream and white tones, with nothing out of place. There’s a vintage Eames chair next to a stone fireplace that reaches upward to the two-story ceiling in the great room. Modern and classical art gives pops of color and classical warmth to the white walls and everywhere my eyes go there are beautiful things I never thought I would see outside of the pages of magazines or in the movies.

I’ve wandered around as much as I dare, touching things and running my fingers along the luxurious upholstery.

As hard as it’s been to resist, I’ve not ventured into any of the rooms down the hallways. I want to explore everything. I want to see what his bedroom looks like. How he hangs his clothes.

What kind of underwear he wears. Wash my hair with his shampoo and my body with his soap.

I checked out the refrigerator, the pantry and the laundry room and looked at every photo, fearing I would find one with Marshall’s arm around some leggy blonde wearing a monster rock on her left ring finger.

But, as far as I can tell from my surface snooping, there’s no Mrs. Rogers. Can’t rule out a girlfriend, though. Or twenty.

Doesn’t matter. No way a man like Marshall is going to give me a second look.

I walk over to a chrome and glass desk in the living room and run my finger along a picture frame. Inside there’s a photograph of Marshall and Buddha sitting on what I think must be the dock by the lake. I let out this little sigh and wonder what it would be like to be the third in that photo.