For all I knew, he was a serial killer.
“I’m fine,” I said, tilting my head as we both stared down at Dick. “Do you think I permanently injured him?”
“I hope so.”
“Are you intimidated?” I asked.
“I probably should be,” he murmured. “But no, I find myself quite impressed.”
I glanced over my shoulder. “Not enough people find competency sexy, and I’ve never understood that.”
Behind the mask, he had dark eyes, and they sparked at my reply. His lips, which were not something I normally paid attention to on a man, only held the slightest hint of a smile. And when he spoke, his voice was a pleasing, low rumble. “You should hold on to that bottle. It’s rough out there.”
Turning slowly, I looked up at him as he took a respectful step backward.
“Thank you for being willing to step in.” I twirled the bottle before tucking it under my arm. “In case I missed my target, it would’ve been nice to have some muscle.”
He hummed, and I wasn’t quite sure what the sound meant. He glanced beyond me to where Dick was up on his knees now, a hand braced on the bench as he breathed hard. “I don’t think your aim was ever a concern.” His eyes moved back to my face, and he did a quick study of what he saw, gaze never once dropping below my neck. “Shall we?”
Mr. Mysterious held out his arm, and carefully, I set my free hand onto the crook of his elbow. “A change of scenery would be nice,” I told him. “I’m Adaline, by the way.”
He tilted his head down toward mine as we walked slowly toward the main part of the fundraiser. “I was afraid to ask.”
“Afraid?”
He shrugged. “The last person who asked your name ended up writhing on the floor.”
I managed to smother my hysterical laugh, tightening the grip of my fingers on the firm muscle of his arm.
He was an athlete, of that I had no doubt. I could only see the bottom portion of his face, but the sheer proportions of his body were reserved for the kind that graced the very elite. And despite the fact that he was a complete stranger, I found myself relaxing as we wandered back into the main corridor of the museum. He didn’t rush us along, matching his long-legged stride to what I was capable of in my heels.
“You’re not going to tell me your name?” I asked. “It’s the polite thing to do.”
He glanced quickly at my face, then away again. “Not just yet.”
Definitely an athlete then. And one who appreciated a flair of secrecy, it seemed.
“I suppose the masquerade does help one appreciate a little mystery,” I admitted. “This isn’t my normal attire, if you can imagine.”
“I can imagine all sorts of things,” he murmured, like I wasn’t meant to hear. And my heart stuttered a little.
What a very surprising turn of events. The loneliness was long gone, the warmth of his arm underneath my fingers chasing it away until there wasn’t a single hint of it left.
To be truthful, I’d only felt butterflies a few times in my life. Handsome faces didn’t render me speechless, and I’d been around so many athletes—hell, two of my brothers played professional football—that it wasn’t like the mere sight of bulging biceps or a neatly stacked six-pack had me drooling.
Nick gave me butterflies the first time I met him. His bright-blue eyes and the deep dimples that bracketed his cocky smile.
And Emmett Ward had given me butterflies. For years, I’d felt those in his presence. Until I didn’t, because he left for something bigger and better than what I’d offered him when I asked him to give us a chance.