Hot & Heavy (Lightning 2)

Not that that’s going to happen. Because I’m a professional. And because the last thing I want in my life right now is a guy. Any guy, but especially not some crazy daredevil who jumps off cliffs and then acts like I’m the old, crotchety one because I want to keep my feet on the ground. I get enough of that shit from my mom. I don’t need to go looking for it with the guy I’m sleeping with, too.

Not that I’m exactly sleeping with Shawn…he’s a football player, for God’s sake. One hot encounter in a bar does not a relationship make. It doesn’t even make a two-night stand, if I’m being honest. Not that I’m proud of that bizarrely out of character one night stand that happened during the bachelorette party, but it’s not like I can do anything about it.

What is, is. Now I just have to live with it—and make sure I don’t make any more mistakes by doing something else stupidly impulsive. Sleeping with a guy I just met isn’t nearly as bad as giving all my money to some guru in India, but it’s not exactly normal, either.

At least not for me.

But I can fix this. I have to fix this. Because I took—and already spent a large portion of—his hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Which means I’m going to be the best yoga instructor Shawn could ever ask for. The rest though…the rest is off the table.

Two and a half hours later, I remind myself of that fact as I pull up to the most incredible house I’ve ever seen. I mean, Hunter and Emerson’s home is amazing, but this place…it’s like the universe crawled inside every secret spot I have and created a house just for me.

If I had about ten million dollars to put into that house, of course.

White and minimalist, at least from the outside, it doesn’t have a lot of frills and flounces like other houses I’ve passed on this street. Instead, it’s got really clean geometric shapes—exaggerated triangle roofs on either side of the house with a smooth circular area connecting what looks to be two separate wings. There are five garages down on street level—so maybe minimalist isn’t exactly the right word—but the landscaping of palm trees and a few exotic flowers is pretty low key compared to what I’ve driven by so far.

It’s beautiful—warm and yet somehow crisp and clean and perfect. From the second I pull my car to a stop in front of one of the garage bays and start walking up the stone path to the front door, hidden away in a circular little alcove, I’m smitten with the place.

It’s kind of bizarre how similar our tastes are, I muse as the gate slowly closes behind me. Definitely disconcerting, considering how different we are in real life. Makes me wonder what’s under that smoldering, daredevil exterior, even as I tell myself it’s none of my business.

I’m here to work on his shoulder not psychoanalyze him. And definitely not to fall in love with the modern charm of his portico, no matter how gorgeous it is. I mean, the man has potted, multicolored daisies on either side of his front door. Daisies! Who wouldn’t be charmed?

The front door opens before I even reach for the doorbell, and the charm of the daisies is suddenly overshadowed by the man who potted them. He’s dressed differently than I’ve ever seen him before—in tight jeans ripped at the knees and a black T-shirt that shows off every inch of his broad shoulders and spectacular biceps. His gorgeous hair is tied back at the nape of his neck in a tiny little ponytail that only magnifies the intensity of his eyes and the utter lickability of that knife-sharp jawline.

Not that I want to lick it, I remind myself as I finally manage to tear my eyes away from the ridiculous beauty of his face. Because I don’t. At all. And even if I did it’s so not going to happen.

“Sage!” He says my name with such warmth that I can’t help responding despite my best intentions. Which is ridiculous—I mean, shouldn’t I be immune to this guy’s heat by now? Or if not immune, at least a little bit inoculated against it? Instead, it feels like I just wandered into the Sahara instead of his gorgeously appointed foyer—my mouth is dry, my skin feels like it’s on fire and my insides are melting at an alarming rate.

It’s beyond disconcerting considering I spent all

day preparing myself to see him again. Worse, to touch him again. To find out that I’m not ready for any of it—not ready for him—just as he welcomes me into his house?

Definitely not the way this was supposed to go down.

“Hi, Shawn.” I force myself to speak considering things are going to get awkward fast if all I do is continue to stand here staring at the man. And trying to surreptitiously wipe the drool off my chin.

“It’s good to see you.” He wraps an arm around my shoulders and pulls me in for a warm, bergamot and honey scented hug that sets my whole body off. “Did you have any trouble finding the place?”

I’m too busy trying not to bury my face in his neck and sniff him to answer. Seriously, what the hell is wrong with me? I mean, yeah, there’s chemistry between us, but I’ve had chemistry with other people before and still managed to act like a rational, thinking human being.

Then again, there’s chemistry and then there’s chemistry. I’ve never felt anything like the heat between Shawn and me, and it makes me want to strip off my clothes in the middle of his foyer with its elegantly patterned ceramic floor tiles and the beautiful Spanish sconces on its walls.

“Sage?” He pulls back when I don’t immediately respond, the smile slowly fading from his face. “Everything okay?”

I take a deep breath to steady myself, then force myself to start acting like a normal human being. “It’s good. I’m good.” I trip over the words, then make a show of looking around. “Your house is beautiful.”

“It’s a work in progress. I’m slowly putting it together, one room at a time.”

“You?” I asked.

The grin is back. “You don’t have to sound so surprised. I can do something besides catch a football, you know.”

“I’m well aware of just what you can do,” I answer. “Isn’t that why I’m here?”

I’m conscious of how they sound even as the words leave my mouth, and I start blushing before I can help myself. Even before Shawn’s jet-black brows hit his hairline, and his grin becomes a sexy little smirk. “Oh, yeah?”

“I meant the cliff diving,” I tell him, voice as prim as I can make it as I walk past him into a living room that is completely empty except for the huge picture window that overlooks the Pacific and a large painting hanging on the back wall.

It’s very similar to the view from the window, except instead of being calm and blue, with sailboats in the distance, the ocean is gray and storm-tossed and empty. So empty. It’s a dark painting, no doubt about it. And while it’s not ominous-feeling per se, there’s definitely a hint of danger in it. I feel it in my spine even halfway across the room.