JUNO
The stench of sweaty socks and other odors I didn’t want to identify permeated the air as I studied my reflection in the locker room mirror, inspecting each flaw, cataloging them to run on repeat tonight while tossing and turning in bed. All the imperfect features in the mirror staring back at me were recognizable except for the light brown curls framing my full cheeks. After several failed attempts to find someone in Anchor Bay who could continue to successfully highlight my natural brown locks to the brilliant blonde I was used to, I threw in the towel and dyed it back to my original color myself.
It wasn’t a bad dye job, but the brown wasn’t doing my fair complexion any favors. Which was why I went blonde years ago, hoping the lighter hair would help maximize my only striking feature—my large aqua eyes framed by naturally long dark lashes.
Or at least that was what that asshole ex of mine convinced me of.
A boom of vibrating metal echoed through the locker room from a fist beating on the door from the other side.
“Let’s get to it, Juno,” came the deep voice of my self-defense trainer, Oliver. “I don’t have much time this morning. Hell of a lot going on in my day job.”
I snorted in agreement. That was an understatement. As our deputy sheriff, he was overwhelmed with everything going on in our small town, even with the LA detective that Brandon, the owner of the adventure and rescue company I worked for, had asked to come assist.
“Be right there,” I shouted back before returning my gaze to my reflection for one more critical pass.
Full round cheeks, a tiny, upturned nose, thin upper lip offset by a full lower one, wide forehead—ugh, is that a fucking wrinkle?Hips pressed against the cracked sink, I leaned toward the mirror for a closer inspection. A finger pressed on each brow, I pulled them apart, making the faint line disappear.
“Guess that’s what I get for being in the dreaded mid-thirties,” I grumbled. “Getting old sucks ass.”
My loose hair shifted side to side with a disapproving headshake as I turned from my reflection that reminded me I wasn’t and never would be enough. Careful not to snag the wild curls, I pulled the unruly strands into a high bun and secured it with a tie on top of my head.
Passing the single bench in the middle of the row of lockers, I grabbed my gloves and bag, not wanting the clothes inside to absorb the stink, and shoved open the door, eager to escape the stagnant stench of sweaty men. Out in the main area, Oliver glanced up from his phone where he stood by the mats, giving me a quick assessing once-over before tossing the device onto the top of his training bag along the wall.
“You’re seriously wearing that to spar today?” With a furrowed brow, he gestured to my hot pink biker shorts and matching top. The punch of insecurity his comment delivered to my fragile ego must have registered on my face, because apanicked expression overtook his. “Not that you look bad. You look great. Sexy as fuck, actually. I just mean—” Oliver cut himself off and tipped his face to the ceiling. “Are you trying to get me killed? If Langston walks in and sees us sparring with you wearing that, I’m a dead man.”
Him mentioning that asshole cut off the voice in my head telling me my legs were too thick, too flabby, too… anything but gorgeous in the shorts I daringly purchased the last time I was in Anchorage. Forcing a smile, I waved off Oliver’s worry and began strapping on my gloves.
“First, you’re being overly dramatic, which is concerning for someone who’s our first line of defense in Anchor Bay. We need someone calm, not dramatic.”
The corners of his lips twitched upward. “The second line of defense, technically. I’m only the deputy sheriff, so my dad is the first.”
I grimaced. “That doesn’t make me feel any better.”
“Me neither,” Oliver grumbled while swiping the training pads off the floor. “And second?”
“Second, why the hell would Langston care about what I’m wearing if he comes in to work out today?”
Oliver paused what he was doing to shoot me an incredulous look that said I was the one being an idiot here.
Gloves on, I tossed both hands in the air in exasperation. “It’s obvious we can’t stand each other. Why does everyone here seem to think we’re faking the heated arguments?—”
“Sexual tension,” he said around a fake cough.
“The death glares,” I added, narrowing my eyes at the back of his head.
“His way of saying he loves you,” Oliver countered like it was obvious.
“Or the way he critiques my every damn choice or move,” I snapped, putting both hands on my hips.
He turned with a sigh. “That’s the only way an overprotective, slightly obsessed asshole like Langston can show he cares.”
“Whatever,” I grumbled. “And third, I will wear what I want to wear, and you will say nothing about it. I swore to myself that I’d never allow a man to dictate what I can or can’t wear again. Or let someone’s opinions make me self-conscious about how I feel in clothes I believe I look good in?—”
Two calloused palms settled on my shoulders and squeezed, pausing my rambling. With his lips pressed in a tight line, Oliver’s dark gaze scanned my face.
“Juno, who the fuck said that shit to you that you had to make a promise like that to yourself?”
Realizing I’d accidentally allowed a peek into my shitty past, I quickly sealed my lips shut to keep from divulging more.
