Sledgehammer (Hard to Love 2)

His head jerks up. The sharp look in his eyes takes me by surprise. “Say my name again.” His voice is low, huskier than usual––and does strange things to my female parts. A hair singeing flush starts at my feet and shoots straight to my scalp. The intense scrutiny makes me nervous, makes me want to hide.

“You’re my meal ticket, Fancy Pants, my get-out-of-jail-card. If something happens to you, I’m going to have to pull a Romeo and Juliet and follow you to the grave.”

The spark that was in his gorgeous eyes only a minute ago dissipates, which makes me feel like garbage. I’m a coward. I’m a bloody coward and fully admit it. I can’t say it. Because in that one unspoken word, his name, a thousand unrequited sentiments lie behind it. Yearning, lust, friendship, respect. Pick one––they’re all there. It’s an effing smorgasbord of feelings that I vowed to avoid like the black plague until my career was off the ground. And yet here I am, having them for a person that is unequivocally off limits to me. Add insult to injury, he’s much too perceptive for his own good. I can’t let him see how I feel about him. That would be beyond mortifying.

“Hold my crown while I do this,” he says, a blinding white grin on the tail end of it. Another one of his unique gifts. Like he has a clear line of sight into my thoughts and knows when I feel cornered, when I’ve been pushed too far.

“Yeah, yeah. Stop flapping those lips and focus on staying alive.”

“Watch and learn, Jones.”

He begins climbing as he does everything else in life–– carefully, thoughtfully, methodically. He finds a hand hold, grabs it, testing it before proceeding. Then he finds the foot hole and does the same.

He shucked off his track pants before harnessing up and is presently in his shorts and a v neck t-shirt. Long, sinuous muscles outlined by the sweat soaked t-shirt band across his back. The power of his shoulders on full display as he pulls himself up. And that hiney? Goodness sake, have some mercy. Have some freaking mercy. I want to take a bite of it. I want to sink my teeth into each juicy, muscular globe. I want to…

There’s a dude standing next to me. And he’s busy doing the exact same thing I’m doing––violating Ethan with his eyes. An immediate impulse to defend my turf steals over me. I perform an open inspection of my competition. Tall, bald, and muscular. I stare at his closely shaved head in the hope that he’ll feel the heat shooting out of my burning gaze. For my effort, I get nothing.

“Yo.” A minute passes, two. “Hey,” I go with this time, a little more force in my voice. Finally, he deigns me with his attention. “You’re barking up the wrong tree, bud. He’s into hot pockets, not corndogs.”

My so-called competition crosses his arms and performs a pointed inspection of my person. It’s all very National Geographic, two opponents sizing each other up. And since I’m practically a professional at this, I do not blink. After a full two minute stare down, he walks away. I’m getting a pretty good idea of what Fancy has to go through every time he steps out the door and I do not like it one bit.

My attention returns to the man in question. He’s only one more foot hole from the top. As soon as he reaches it, he looks down at me, over his shoulder, and smiles. Somebody start thumping on my chest. I think my heart just stopped. After that, he rappels down, taking with him my eyeballs, which seem to be glued to his ass. Don’t judge.

He walks up beaming that same unguarded smile.

“What? That’s supposed to be impressive? I’m supposed to be impressed? A monkey could do that in half the time.”

Hands on his hips, breathing deeply, he says, “It’s not as easy as I made it look.” Then, he grabs the bottom of his t-shirt and wipes his sweaty face with it, a six pack I could shred cheddar cheese on in my face.

“Don’t you have a towel for that?”

When he drops the t-shirt, his expression is a combination of amusement and confusion. He steps closer and I automatically take a giant step back. He barks out a laugh, and puts his hands up.

“Easy there, jumpy. I’m just checking your harness.”

“Fine. Do it. Just ‘cuz I don’t want to die.” I hold my arms out while he checks the tightness of the straps. He’s so close I have to hold my breath in fear I’ll get woozy from the pheromones pouring off of him. Head down and expression hyper focused, he tugs and pulls on the straps, the backs of his hands brushing against my stomach and hips. Thank the good Lord I wore leggings and a long sleeve shirt.