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“Are you even listening to me?” Alli’s staring at me with a raised brow, and all I can do is down what’s left of my margarita in one go, clean my hand with the nearest napkin, and ask a passing waiter for the check.
“Let’s go.”
“Go? Go where?” Any other time I’d find her expression comical—as if I’ve grown a second head and she isn’t sure whether to call for help or display me like a circus attraction. “Mari, we need to—”
“Figure out my next move and take me to get stitches.”
“Oh shit!”
“Indeed.”
A sudden knock on my door wakes me from a nap. I’ve been crashed out on my large sofa with a soft afghan, ignoring the world and all my duties while trying to push the memories of the last twenty-four hours out of my mind.
His presence.
His effect on me.
The person on the other side of the door pounds louder, the rhythmic tap tap tap grinding my gears and I throw the blanket off, stretching my arms high and causing my back to arch and release a soothing pop. I’m a bit stiff, but it feels good to do so, and I move my neck from side to side to do the same.
A few quick cracks and I throw my legs over the edge, stumbling a bit to the door. “I’m coming!”
All noises cease and I quickly grab my Glock, the one I keep by the entrance table, and stand on the tips of my toes to look through the peephole. It’s a young man with an old trucker hat and a shirt that matches the company logo. He’s holding a delivery bag and I stand back, tucking the gun in the waistband of my spandex shorts.
Maybe Malcolm sent this?
With that thought, I open the door partway and look at the kid with a raised brow. “Can I help you?”
“Delivery for a Mariah Asher,” he squeaks out, and I fight back a smile. All men are the same, and with how little I answered the door in, I’m surprised the looks-to-be high schooler hasn’t drooled a bit. Because I know I’m a beautiful woman, that I turn heads, but I don’t live in a land of delusion where appearances make you untouchable. I can hold my own, and I’m just as deadly as Malcolm when pushed.
“That’s me. Who sent you?”
His eyes sweep down quickly over my crop top, and he swallows hard. “No name, ma’am. I was just told to deliver and—”
Whatever explanation he has dies the moment a dominating presence makes itself known. He’s here, standing but a few feet from me with a handsome smile on his face, taking me in as I do him, though, when he reaches the expanse of bare skin—between my crop top and the waistband of my shorts—his expression turns predatory.
Javier’s eyes narrow and he takes a step closer. Just one, and I feel him as though he’d pressed every square inch of his muscular frame against mine.
“Hello, Muñeca.”
“How?” is all I manage to get past the sudden dryness of my mouth and the shaking of my limbs. He’s standing there looking devilish in a pair of grey sweats and a University of Chicago hoodie with a smirk across his tempting lips.
He’s wearing my alma mater. He’s becoming a weakness.
There’s just something about a man dressed down, comfortable, and unable to hide the muscles beneath. To hide the hardness between his legs.
It’s the highlight of the cold months for women all across the world. A special treat we enjoy without being obvious, though, he seems to know where my mind is as a touch of pink grazes my cheek.
“I’m here for our date.” Javier bites his bottom lip, eyes softening while perusing my figure. He pauses at my chest, then hips, before spending a little extra time on my thighs and the nonexistent gap there.
I’m curvaceous, and he likes it. More than, and his heavy-lidded eyes are a tell.
“How do you know where I live?” I ask instead, fighting my smile back at his audacity. At the hint of possessiveness in his stance. Because I can’t deny to myself that his unexpected visit is a bit sexy. Pushy, yet cute. “How sure are you that I won’t shoot you?”
Javier shrugs, placing a hand on the delivery boy standing a few inches from him. He doesn’t look at him when turning him away. Not so much as a word when pointing toward the elevator bank down the hall, where the kid scurries off to. “I’m sure you can, but a little wound doesn’t scare me.”
“Wanna bet?”
“Let me in, beautiful.” He takes a step forward but I hold my stance, hand on the doorknob. “Are you going to deny me this meal?”
