Was it quiet because everyone was gone? Kidnapped, maybe killed?
I padded into the kitchen, careful to keep my steps silent. With my functional hand, I pulled a cleaver from the knife block. If my other hand was worth shit, I would've grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl. It wasn't much but my knuckleball was enough to disorient the most skilled attackers. Combat wasn't about advanced weapons. It was about inflicting quick, devastating damage with anything you could find.
That was when I noticed him.
He was walking slowly, his gaze and his thumbs glued to his mobile phone. Medium height, golden skin, dark hair, lean shoulders.Young.Too young for me. Retro horn-rimmed glasses, a three-piece gray suit that made me thirsty as fuck with the way it nipped in at his trim waist, and an expensive leather messenger bag. He didn't look like any assassin I'd ever met. Mostly because he wasn't paying attention to a damn thing.
Maybe he wasn't an assassin at all.
"Who the fuck are you?" I barked.
His head snapped up as he sucked in a breath and flattened his phone to the vee of his vest. "Tom Esbeck," he replied, blinking fast. Blinking at the cleaver I pointed in his direction. Blinking back at me. He had gorgeous eyes, a deep, moody brown that reminded me of the first cup of hot coffee after a long, wild night. "Uh, okay. This is interesting. Yeah, I'm Tom and we've met. At Matt and Lauren's wedding. We met there. I told you where to find the good gay bars in Provincetown. Remember?"
I didn't, and I didn't lower the cleaver. "Aren't they all?"
"Gay?" he asked. "Or good?"
I jerked a shoulder up. The only shoulder I could jerk. The cadre of physical therapists hadn't cracked this nut yet. "Both."
He shook his head. "No, not nearly. Not anymore," he replied. "Listen, I'm not sure what this is about but I'm just leaving a few things for Shannon to sign when she gets back. Could we play cops and robbers later? I'm due on the other side of the city in an hour and traffic is such a bitch."
"Where is she?" I hated asking the question. I hated not knowing. But I'd also locked myself away above the garage back in January, ignoring most attempts at interacting with anyone while I watched the month and my life as I knew it slide away. I'd chosen that and I'd chosen this set of consequences too, even if I found them inconvenient now.
He glanced at his watch. One of the new ones that tracked steps and sleep and literally everything about your existence. "Doctor appointments. Her and then the new baby." He nodded toward the cleaver with an eyeroll. "Praise the puppies. It's always something at the Halsted house."
I peered at him as he shifted toward the door, tilting my head a bit to drink him up. He was trim and fit as fuck and…and beautiful.Beautiful. His complexion was gorgeous. That vest wanted to be ripped off. Just fucking ripped off. Fabric tearing, buttons flying everywhere, off. I'd destroy that fancy dress shirt too. Leave it in a shredded pile on the floor.
If I'd met him before, I would've remembered. Yeah, I would've remembered him. I wanted to remember him. "Wait. You're not leaving yet," I called to his back. "Who are you again?"
5
Tom
G.I. Joe was barefootand shirtless.
And wagging a knife at me.
And didn't remember meeting me before this charmed encounter.
When the reasonable part of me thought about it, I could forgive him. It had been a wedding with free-flowing liquor, and it had been more than five freaking years ago.
But when the vain part of me thought about it, I wasn't as forgiving. The vain part of me was my entirety and I wanted to be memorable. I didn't care if that made me petty and self-centered, and I wasn't sticking around to hoard scraps of his bare-chested attention. I shifted toward the front foyer, giving him a tidy view of my ass in this flawless suit and one more chance to dust off his memory.
And my asswasjuicy in these trousers. Ripe-peach juicy.
I was unconcerned with the knife in his hand and the fact he continued wagging it in my direction. He wasn't going to hack me to death or throw it at me, or whatever it was these military types did. But the scar running down his flank and the brace on his arm, those were certainly consequential. I'd heard from Shannon that her brother-in-law was staying with her and Will while he recovered from an assortment of injuries incurred while overseas. I'd heard specifics on neither his wounds nor his previous location.
Wes stared in my direction—specifically, his gaze shifted to my very juicy ass—for another moment before dropping the knife to the marble countertop beside him. The clang of steel on stone vibrated between us.
"Wait. You're not leaving yet." He sounded irritable, as if him forgetting me was my problem. "Who are you again?"
I shifted back to face him but couldn't tear my gaze from his body. He was amazing. A real, live G.I. Joe with scars and fresh wounds and unbuttoned jeans and…no shirt hiding that glorious tuft of blond chest hair.
No shirt.
No! Shirt!
Dammit, I was trying to be aloof. He didn't remember a damn thing about me yet I was salivating over his abs and dreaming about pulling on that chest hair while I sat on his face. Why did I do this to myself? Really, why did I turn into a heart-eyed puddle every time a brawny beefcake blew me off? Because that was the situation now…and always. I got nothing and kept getting in line for more of it.
