Chapter 18

I don’t mean to keep looking at him. That would imply a decision, a moment where I can choose to turn away, to let the room swallow him back into its usual rhythm. To pretend that whatever tilted when he walked through that door hasn’t settled somewhere under my skin. 

But I don’t choose anything. Not really. 

Because the second I see him before I even know what I’m looking at, something in me has already leaned in, already locked on. Already recognized him in that dangerous, instinctive way the body knows certain things before the brain has language for them. 

Like hunger. Like gravity. Like trouble. 

And dear sweet God, he looks like all kinds of trouble. 

Tall enough to command attention without demanding it, broad shoulders cutting through the dim clubhouse like something carved out of shadow and muscle, blond hair falling carelessly across his forehead in a way that should soften him, but somehow only makes him more dangerous. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, revealing large tattooed forearms and ink crawling over his hands, dark against tan skin, the kind of tattoos that look earned rather than decorative. 

But it’s his face that hits hardest.