But his eyes paralyze me. They are the same stormy gray I remember, but the softness is gone. In its place is a cold, burning intensity that feels like a physical weight pressing against my skin.
"Courtney."
His voice is gravel and smoke, deeper than I remember. It vibrates in the air between us, resonating in the hollow of my womb.
"Austin," I manage to whisper, though I doubt he hears it. I clear my throat, trying to summon the Chicago professional, the woman who negotiates contracts and stares down CEOs. "I didn't know you were... patrolling this far out."
He walks toward me. He doesn't rush. He moves with the inevitable, crushing pace of a landslide. His boots thud heavy on the dirt, then strike the wood of the bottom step.
"I’m not patrolling," he says, stopping at the base of the stairs. Because I’m two steps up, we are almost eye level, but he still feels like he’s towering over me. "I’m welcoming the neighbors."
"I’m not a neighbor," I say. My voice betrays me, thin and strained. I smell him—leather, hot engine oil, pine, and a musk that is entirely, uniquely male. It triggers a flood of memories and a sudden, sharp spike of heat low in my belly that I haven't felt in years. "I’m just here to sell the place. I’ll be gone in three days."
Austin’s eyes drop. He scans me, slowly, deliberately. He starts at my boots, moves up the denim clinging to my thighs, lingers on the curve of my hips—wide, soft, demanding to be held—and then travels up to my chest. His gaze feels like a touch, hot and branding. My nipples harden instantly against the lace of my bra, an automatic reaction that makes my breath hitch.
When his eyes finally meet mine again, they are darker. Dilated.
"Three days," he repeats, the words rolling around his mouth like he’s tasting them. "You think you can undo a hundred years of rot in three days?"
"I have a contractor coming," I say, clutching the handle of my suitcase tighter. "It’s a hot market. It’ll sell as is."
"Not if the roof leaks," he says. "Not if the foundation is cracked. Not if the local MC decides they don't want strangers moving in next door."
My spine stiffens. "Is that a threat, Austin?"
He bares his teeth in a wolf's grin. "No, Court. That’s a zoning issue."
He takes another step up. He’s in my personal space now. Too close. I should step back, retreat to the safety of the rotting porch, but my feet are nailed to the wood. My body wants him closer. It recognizes him in a way my mind refuses to accept. It remembers the way he used to look at me when we were eighteen, right before everything went to hell.
"You look..." He pauses, searching for the word. His hand twitches at his side, like he wants to reach out. "Different."
"I grew up."
"You filled out," he corrects, his voice dropping an octave, becoming a rough purr. "You were always skinny. All elbows and knees. Now..." His gaze drops to my hips again, heavy and starving. "Now you look like you were made for trouble."
"I don't want trouble, Austin. I just want to sell the house."
"You left without saying goodbye." The playfulness vanishes, replaced by a jagged edge of old hurt and simmering anger. "Ten years, Courtney. Not a call. Not a letter. Just dust."
Acid burns my throat. "I couldn't stay. You know what happened. I couldn't be part of that life."
"My life," he says. He taps the patch on his chest, the Vice President patch clearly visible. "You couldn't be part of me."
"I was eighteen. I was scared."
"And now?" He steps up again, crowding me against the railing. I feel the heat radiating off his chest. He places a hand on the wooden post beside my head, effectively boxing me in. His arm is thick, corded with muscle, tattooed with black ink that disappears up his sleeve. "Are you scared now, Courtney?"
I look up at him, my heart thumping so hard it hurts. "Yes."
"Good." He leans in, his face inches from mine. I can see the flecks of gold in his gray eyes, the tiny scar above his lip. "Fear keeps you sharp. The mountains eat the careless."
"Why are you here, Austin?" I ask, my voice barely a whisper. "Did you follow me?"
"I saw you turn off Main Street," he says, his tone unapologetic. "I knew you were coming back. James told the club the estate was being liquidated. I’ve been waiting."
"Waiting for what?"
"To see if you’d bring him," he says, his jaw tightening.
