I have a sister.
Just as she’s about to pass, she flicks a glance at me. Or was that above me? At my mom? Whichever one of us she’s looking at, she has the same expression on her face that her mom did.
The other one is next. But I don’t dare think of him as my brother. And I drop my eyes before he can look at me. Because I don’t think I can take it. I don’t think I can take one more person looking at me in disgust.
My dad is a liar.
My mom is a liar.
I think I have siblings. But I think they hate me.
And I don’t want to be hated.
I just want to be loved.
CHAPTER 1
Val
My fingers fumble with the paper wrapping just as a firm body slams into my side.
“Watch it!” a deep voice booms in my ear.
My feet try to shuffle with the impact, but my balance tips just as I lose my grip on my cookie, dropping it to the ground. At the same time, the weight that was hanging off my left shoulder drops away, ending any hope I have of not falling.
An embarrassing squeak bursts from my lips, and I splay my arms, desperately trying to catch myself.
I wish my eyes would shut, but they’re stuck wide open, watching all the people who are watching me and hoping to witness the klutzy girl wipe out in the airport terminal.
Except I don’t fall.
What has to be a freakishly strong arm encircles my waist and pulls me back against a hard body.
“I got you.” The same masculine voice from before speaks into my ear, only this time it’s quiet. A whisper. A growl. A something.
Swallowing, I let my arms drop and force my body to relax. The need for bracing no longer there.
“Thanks,” I breathe out before I notice that his big hand is splayed across my stomach.
A stranger is touching my stomach. My soft, squishy stomach.
I can only pray that he’s not as attractive as he sounds.
“Don’t be thanking me, Angel.” His hand slides across my tummy to my waist as he moves from behind me to next to me. “If that asshole hadn’t bumped into me, I wouldn’t have knocked into you.”
“Oh, it’s okay. I…” I start to say more, but then my eyes flick up to the tall man beside me, and my ability to form words vanishes.
Holy fuck-me eyes.
I blink.
Scratch that. Holy fuck-me everything.
His piercing blue irises are only the beginning.
A man in a suit, with closely buzzed dark hair, a matching trimmed beard, and shoulders wide enough to sit on, is smiling down at me like he’s truly happy to be inconvenienced by crashing into me.
His lips move.
They’re a shade darker, a shade pinker than his tanned skin.
His lips moved.
“Sorry?” My cheeks heat as I admit I didn’t hear him, even though we’re standing face-to-face.
His smile widens. “Did I hurt you?”
My brain is straight-up short-circuiting because my mind dives headfirst into the gutter, picturing him asking me that when we’re both sweaty and naked—in bed.
“No,” I croak. Jesus, Val. Get it together. “Did I hurt you?”
Did I hurt you?
I want to slap a hand over my mouth. Or crawl under the nearest bench and pretend I’m dead.
The man’s mouth tips into a smirk. “Don’t think a little thing like you could, even if you tried.”
Little?
Is it hot in here?
It’s really hot in here.
The pressure on my back shifts, and I realize his big palm is still there, holding me in place.
He lowers his face.
Is he going to kiss me?
My eyes start to close before they snap back open.
He’s not going to kiss me. This isn’t a Hallmark movie. Or a porno.
He keeps lowering, though, bending down, and my eyes drop to the floor.
Oh, right, my backpack.
And my cookie.
My face heats even more.
Seriously, my brain cannot pick a lane.
I’m blushing over his closeness. Flustered over him calling me little. Self-conscious about how his hand was touching my stomach. Feeling fat over being caught eating a cookie. And just over-freaking-heated over him.
The hand that was resting against my back brushes over my butt as he drops into a crouch at my feet.
And that accidental touch is enough to frazzle me even more.
It’s been way too long if an innocent graze of fingers against my butt cheek is enough to have my core tightening.
I force myself to snap out of my trance and squat down next to him.
“I got it,” I say, but I don’t even reach for the bag. Because I’m too busy staring at his tattooed fingers.