• • •
Marina
Okay, he’s not cute. He’s hot. Like legit, I-want-to-see-him-naked hot, and yes, that pisses me off. Being hot doesn’t excuse you for being an asshole. You don’t get a pass for breaking into someone’s house and locking them up with you for eight long hours. At least I get the satisfaction of watching his expression flash with horror before he tries to act all cool and macho again. Yep, that’s right. Congratulations, Eli. We get to hang out in awkward silence for an entire day. Hope you’ve got some internet-free apps on your phone because I’m sure as hell not entertaining you.
But apparently boundaries aren’t a thing this guy does well, because he’s already roaming around my room like a caged lion. I’m about to snap at him again when I catch the critique on my tongue. He just found out he is kind of a lion in a cage right now. I’ll give him a few minutes to process that. Maybe I don’t mind watching him either. Homeless or not, the dude is oddly refined. I hate that his movements spark curiosity over disgust. There’s a strange elegance to him that I missed in the initial terror and frustration of our introduction. If he’s homeless, he hasn’t been living on the streets for long. My gaze slips to the backpack he brought in, probably all his worldly possessions, poor thing. Then I get a whiff of expensive cologne.
I swallow the surge of butterflies at that surprising twist. No! You are not going to be attracted him. You. Are. Not. But the combination of that smell with that body and that smirk is an injustice I can’t get out of my head, and images from my remote weapons’ check come flooding back. I didn’t just want to look in that moment. I wanted to frisk him. Hands and fingers all over that sculpted body until I was sure he not only wasn’t armed, but was fully equipped in other areas. Stop it! I force myself to remember how I then wanted to die when he caught me gawking. Plus, he’s basically a criminal. That works. I manage to hate him again.
His pacing has slowed, his gaze fixed on me when I dare a look back at him. He runs a hand through his hair, and yeah, there’s no doubt about it. His messy dark locks have recently been styled. Who is this guy? I flinch at how badly I want to know.
“So how do I know you’re not armed,” he asks, running his gaze over my body with a cocky grin. Ah yes, there we go. Irritation is fully charged again.
I narrow my eyes at him. “You already know I am.”
“What, with that paring knife? Are you going to papercut me to death?” He motions toward my nightstand where I tucked the weapon after determining he’s not a threat. Well, not a physical one anyway.
“It’s a steak knife,” I retort, resting my fists on my hips. “It has serrated edges and could do plenty of damage if used in the right way.”
“Okay, Aunt Mabel,” he snorts, and yes, I’d smack him if I could reach him.
“Who?”
He shakes his head, still grinning. Gah! He’s infuriating. “No one. Just… you got a TV or something?” He scans my small apartment, his expression dimming when he answers his own question.
“I’ve got world class amenities, actually. An industrial kitchen, several lounges and big screen TVs. Everything you could ever want… upstairs.”
He sighs and drops back to the chair. I get another intoxicating blast of that sexy man smell and retreat several steps to perch on the edge of my bed. We sit in silence for a while. Him, staring at his phone as if still in disbelief it can’t help him. Me, staring at him because my eyes don’t seem to know where else to look at the moment. I tell myself it’s a defensive move. Keep the predator in sight. Don’t let down your guard. He may not be armed or seem like a threat, but you never know with these things. The most dangerous ones are the ones you don’t see coming.
After several long seconds, he grunts and shoves his phone in his backpack with disgust. “Why is it a million degrees down here?” he asks. I can’t tell if that was meant for me, or just general grumbling, but it’s conversation at least.
“The old radiators are hard to regulate,” I say, motioning toward the large metal coil in the corner.
He’s not wrong. It does get hot, especially when the upstairs door is closed and the rising heat can’t escape. And now with two bodies down here? It’s going to get unbearable soon, but I don’t want to tell him that. If he’s at all claustrophobic, this is going to get pretty messy. I fear that very thing when he pushes up from the chair and starts pacing again.
He fans his shirt a few times as he moves, lifting the hem to wipe at his forehead. My mouth goes dry as I study his bare chest with each stretch and flex of his body. The internal rush floods south, and I force my eyes back to the floor.
“You’re not claustrophobic, are you?” I ask, still avoiding him, but we need words. Silence won’t do either of us any favors. When he doesn’t respond, I have no choice but to look at him again. By the flash of panic in his eyes before he averts his gaze, I think I got my answer.
“Nah,” he says casually. “Not really.” But I’m almost positive he’s lying. Crap. This isn’t good. No wonder he’s struggling with the heat. I push up from the mattress and move toward the mini fridge. Grabbing a bottle of water, I turn and toss it toward him. He reacts late and captures it against his chest with a surprised look.
“Thanks,” he says, twisting off the cap. He takes a long swallow, and maybe I kind of feel bad for my initial reaction to this whole thing. He never should have come down here in the first place, but he obviously didn’t get us stuck together on purpose. He looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here.
“It’s going to be okay,” I say as he closes the half-empty bottle, gripping it hard in his hand. “They’re going to find us, I promise.”
He releases a harsh laugh. “Yeah. It’s just… never mind. That yours?” He motions toward the guitar on the stand by my bed, and I nod. “You mind?” He reaches for it when I gesture my permission. So he plays guitar too. Fine. Not the first homeless guy to play a guitar.
He lowers himself to the edge of the bed and balances the guitar on his lap. His fingers find the frets with ease, and I’m intrigued when he cringes at the first discordant strum. “You got a tuner?” he asks, twisting a look back at me. I’m about to tell him to grab it from the nightstand drawer when I remember I hid my knife in there. Hid. Except he knows it’s there. Still…
I cross in front of him, my skimpy shorts brushing his knee as I lean to open the drawer. A shiver runs through me, the heat returning when I get another burst of that intoxicating scent. The crooked smile on his face doesn’t help when I straighten to hand him the tuner. His warm fingers graze mine in the exchange, and I withdraw my hand quickly. He notices, the amused smile turning wry as he shakes his head.
“Look, I don’t want to be trapped here as much as you don’t want me here,” he says, focusing back on the strings as he tunes with expert precision. The guy knows his way around a guitar, I’ll give him that. And yes, maybe he looks a little hurt that I’m still treating him like a criminal mastermind. He’s done nothing to indicate he’s a threat. If anything, I’ve been the hostile one in this entire debacle.