A prickle, like the touch of electricity on wet skin.
A tug, like the whisper of emotional déjà vu that heightens my awareness and awakens my intuition.
Something shifts the air around me, along with my heartbeats, and my eyes dart to find the cause. It’s as if my body already knows what I’ll find before my mind has caught up.
It’s the same way my eyes involuntarily found him last year at the taekwondo championship, dressed inconspicuously and obscured by the crowd, yet impossible to miss.
And the way I felt his presence in the room six months ago, before my eyes had even confirmed it, when he came to ask Troyfor his help on a new role. A role, coincidentally, playing an injured baseball star, living in the Bay Area.
Or the way my soul connected with his across a similarly crowdeddojangall those years ago, when we were just teens. Connected and sealed.
Because the man has the magnetic pull of the Earth, always has.
I inhale sharply when my eyes land on him.
Taller than the rest, with shoulders set so confidently, they make his chest look like an immovable wall. He’s utterly unfazed by the nervous energy in the room.
His stance is casual, deceptively easy. His hands are clasped loosely in front of his waist, serving to draw the eye to the stretch of his biceps straining against the sleeves of his fitted long-sleeve black shirt.
His eyes, the molten chocolate I’ve drowned in again and again, are lined with lashes as dense and dark as the hair underneath his headgear. They’re fixed on a spot straight ahead, as if purposely avoiding my inquisitive stare. The rest of his face is covered beneath a black balaclava tucked under his headgear, presumably so no one recognizes him as the world-famous celebrity he is.
But I don’t need to see it toknowit’s him.
A jaw dusted with the kind of insufferable stubble that makes my thighs clench on reflex. A mouth and lips so sinfully kissable and annoyingly smug, even a simple smirk has the power to undo seven years of my hard-won resistance. And the faintest sprinkle of freckles—God, those freckles!—over his nose and cheeks, a testament to the time he spends in the sun, and a constellation I could trace even with my eyes closed.
I lift my fingers to my neck, feeling my pulse hammering beneath my skin.
He’s here.
I know it’s him as surely as I know my reflection in the mirror. But just as that conclusion locks into place, his covered face turns. His dark eyes lock with mine, unblinking and . . . certain.
I stand motionless, breathless—perhaps even pantiless—as I suppress the urge to disconnect our standoff and run for the nearest exit.
“Nisha?” Micah’s voice jolts me out of my mind trap, and I straighten my posture. “How about you start with this set of five here?” He waves his hand toward five volunteers who look to be of different skill levels. “From each set, eachsabumwill choose an overall winner. And that winner will then choose a final instructor to spar with for a chance to win the grand prize. We’ll address ties if they occur.”
Letting out a relieved breath, I nod, motioning for my group to follow me to the far side of the mat while forcing myself not to look at the masked man again—the one I’m ninety-nine percent sure is my ex-husband. Though, shamelessly, my ears stay acutely trained on his whereabouts like horny bats.
“SabumnimChoi will take this group,” Micah announces, and with a quick glance in their direction, I notice Patton follow four other volunteers behind Instructor Choi toward the opposite side.
Good. The farther away from me, the better.
For my sanity.
And my increasingly traitorous underwear.
Perhaps I can get through this evening without having to confront him and whatever his reason is for being here.
Because one thing is clear: his walking in here was not by mistake, nor was it a sudden philanthropic itch. Although, to be fair, he has donated almost half of his earnings to charitable causes over the years, like an incredibly hot, ridiculously ripped, and recently bathed Keanu Reeves.
Because Patton is all lean and lethal muscle with a soft heart, smelling like expensive body wash and the promise of orgasms.
No, he didn’t walk in here on this particular Friday night to risk getting recognized by every person with a smartphone because he wanted to raise money for foster families. He walked in here for something else.
Me.
I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, though I was hoping Troy could have kept his mouth shut a little longer, given we’re practically family at this point, and family is supposed to look after one another, but I also know my ex-husband.
Once he’s determined to do something, be it obtaining a black belt with two broken toes, securing a lead role in the next Scorsese film, or irritating the shit out of his ex-wife by spontaneously showing up to her events, he’ll let nothing stop him. It’s the same reason he does his own stunt work, like flying off a bridge on a motorcycle, having had zero experience with motorcycles.
