Until Series(263)

I look around and see a guy staring at me. He’s about my age, not much taller than my five feet five inches, cute, and wearing a suit and tie. I start to wave to see if he’s the one I’m meeting, but then another guy catches my attention. He’s about six three and huge, and I don’t mean just in height; his body looks like it’s been chiseled from stone. He’s wearing black boots, washed-out blue jeans, and a white t-shirt, and every piece of skin exposed is covered with tattoos. His ears have those gauge thingies in them. His dark blond hair is cut low on the sides, and the top is in a fauxhawk. His jaw is strong, with a few days of stubble, and his eyes are so blue that they almost look like contacts. He is beautiful in a way that is unusual but no less gorgeous.

His eyes come to me before looking away quickly, and the next second, they come back to me and do a head-to-toe sweep. I gulp at the intense expression on his face. I glance past him to the other guy—or at least try to—but Mr. Tattoo starts towards me, blocking my view. I want to take a step back, but I can’t go anywhere. Then I see my phone in his hand.

“This yours?” he asks.

I nod like an idiot. He shakes his head, running his free hand down his face, and then his eyes sweep over me again.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” he says, seeming upset.

I look down at myself, wondering how I could’ve offended him. I look normal—or my working-outside-the-house normal. When I’m at home working, I wear baggy sweats I cut off to make shorts or pajama pants that hang off of me along with tank tops or T-shirts. The few days a week I get out of the house, I like to dress up or at least wear heels.

“This cannot be fucking happening,” he growls, and I wonder if he is completely crazy.

“What?” I ask, finally finding my voice. I have to tilt my head way back; even in my four-inch heels, he still towers over me.

“You.”

“Me, what?” I ask, confused.

“Never mind. Who is this?” He presses the button on my phone, the screen lights up, and a picture of Jamie Dornan wearing nothing but a pair of jeans takes up the screen.

“Um…that’s Jamie,” I reply, wondering why he is asking but too afraid to ask him; the look on his face isn’t very inviting for conversation.

“He your man?”

“I wish,” I mumble under my breath and hear him growl.

My head flies back as I search his face; his jaw is ticking, and his knuckles of the hand holding my phone are turning white.

“What does that mean?” he asks.

“That’s Jamie Dornan. He’s playing Fifty. I don’t know him.” I feel my cheeks heat up and look down at my feet.

What the hell’s wrong with me? Why am I not afraid right now? I have been scared of virtually everything my whole life, and now, when I should be running for cover, I’m not scared at all. Just a little embarrassed.

“I don’t have time for this,” he says, and I don’t know what he’s talking about, but I all of a sudden really want my phone out of his hand before he crushes it to smithereens.

When I look up again, I see that he is walking away. My eyebrows come together, and I wonder what he is doing. Then I realize he still has my cell.

“Hey! You can’t steal my phone!” I run after him, grabbing his arm.

He looks down at me then stops short. I’m completely caught off guard when he wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me flush against him. His free hand goes into my hair and pulls my head back, and then he kisses me. No, not kisses—he consumes me. My body starts to buzz like someone just plugged me into an electrical outlet, and I start to feel lightheaded. When he pulls his mouth from mine, I gasp, my fingers going to my lips.

“What was that?” I whisper, looking into his eyes.

“What’s your name?” he asks, still holding me close.

“Sophie,” I tell him, my answer spoken behind my fingers.

His body is as hard as a rock against mine; I can feel every muscle, every contour, and it takes everything in me to keep breathing. I realize this is the first time in my life I have ever felt small, my curvy figure never having allowed it before.

“Sophie,” he repeats, standing up to his full height and pulling me with him. I look around and wonder if time has stopped for anyone else. “My name is Nico.”

“Of course it is,” I say, staring into his amazing eyes, thinking that a guy who looks like him would have a name like that—cool and hot, something that rolls easily off your tongue but is hard to forget.

“I’ll see you when I get back into town, Sophie,” he says as he lets me go, making sure I’m steady on my feet.