Shit. Exactly my type of too-pretty-for-their-own-good asshole.
“Not lost,” I said, pinning my best please-fuck-off smile on my face. “It’s hard to miss the bright yellow tape pasted across the scene of a murder.”
He answered my smile with one of his own; but where mine was bitchy, his was the kind of smile you could imagine seeing outside your window at night, with canines sharp enough to tear me apart. “Oh, good, you didn’t miss the tape. Then I’ll take it that you just can’t read, since you decided to hang around.”
I had to force myself to keep my feet planted and not shuffle them. Something about his face looked off. His high cheekbones could cut a girl with their razor edge, if his piercing green eyes didn’t get her first. His full lips made him look boyish, almost innocent — but that innocence stopped at his eyes. They were deep-set below thick brows the same color as his honey blond hair, which was shaved short above his ears and long and messy on top.
He was absurdly attractive. My stomach was already in knots, which meant my voice only got sharper as I said, “I’m pretty sure the tape says Caution, not Stay Back 20 Feet. I don’t see a sign telling me to stay away.”
His smile faded. It melted away from his face like icicles shattering from a roof in winter, and he climbed the steps toward me. I folded my arms, regretting that I hadn’t just walked away as I spotted a logo stitched into his shirt: PNW Security Services.
Damn it. I was mouthing off to a security guard.
He towered over me. He had to lean down to get his face in mine.
“What’s your name?” His voice was low, the words wrapping threateningly around my throat as surely as his big hands could have. I began to chew nervously on my lower lip, and pushed my glasses up my nose.
“Alex,” I said. If he was going to report me to some authority figure, then there was no way I was going to risk getting a mark on my record the first day here. But he shook his head, with a languidly slow, patient blink.
“No. It’s not.”
That feeling of fingers wrapping around my throat intensified. I had to resist reaching my hand up to ensure nothing was squeezing me. What was this guy’s problem? Maybe if I’d just watched my attitude to begin with, then he wouldn’t be pissed off, but it was a little late for that now.
My back was to Calgary’s closed doors, and this guy was entirely blocking my path down the stairs. As I hesitated to answer, he straightened up and leaned one hand above me against the door. Now it wasn’t just the feeling of a hand around my throat; it was also the sensation of a boot pressing down on my skull, pushing me against concrete, whispering incomprehensible threats in my ear —
“It’s Raelynn,” I muttered hurriedly. Instantly the feeling vanished. What the hell? Did I have low blood sugar, or was this asshole really that intimidating? I tugged my book bag a little closer. “If you’re going to be such a dick about it, I’ll just leave then.”
He sniffed harshly, something that easily could have been either amusement or disgust. His rock-hard expression was impossible to read, but having that much intensity fixated on me was uncomfortable. He pushed off the wall and stepped aside, clearing the way for my hurried escape.
“Watch where you wander, girl,” he said, refusing to use my name even now that he’d gotten it out of me. “Curiosity can get you in trouble.”
Part of me desperately wanted to know what kind of “trouble” he was talking about, because a man that beautiful could cause me a lot of trouble indeed. Embarrassing that a pair of bright eyes and a deep voice could make my vow to stop being attracted to assholes go flying out the window.
I stalked away from the building onto the lawn, those light green eyes needling into the back of my skull. I tossed my hair back, trying to add some determination in my step to cover up how flustered he’d gotten me. But something strange happened. It felt like a rope snaking around my ankle, higher and higher, tighter and tighter —
That toxic relationship of mine with gravity? Yeah, it was back to bite me in the ass.
I tripped over my own feet, and at the same time, my old pin-covered book bag finally gave out. The frayed shoulder strap snapped and the bag fell open. My textbooks splayed themselves across the wet grass, loose papers drifted down into puddles, and my to-go cup of iced coffee that I’d wedged — foolishly — into the corner of the bag burst open and sent watered-down coffee splashing across my shoes.
I had to take a moment of silence before I knelt and began to collect my things. I could feel the eyes of passing students, staring: torn between feeling guilty enough to help and awkward enough to just quicken their pace. Cheeks burning, I glanced back over my shoulder, and found the guard watching me.