4. Chapter 4
Hannah
I wake up terrified.
For one horrible second, I have no idea where I am. My heart kicks hard against my ribs.
Then everything comes back.
Declan.
The loan.
The men outside my apartment.
Six hours of rain.
A lock I definitely did not have permission to pick.
Gavin.
Very wet Gavin.
Very nearly naked Gavin.
My heart continues pounding, although its motivation changes somewhere around the towel memory.
That image is going to be imprinted on my brain until death. Possibly longer. If there is an afterlife, I fully expect to arrive carrying a detailed mental picture of Gavin Mercer in one dangerously optimistic piece of white cotton.
I press both hands over my face.
“Great.”
After dinner last night, Gavin gave me a clean towel and pointed me toward the bathroom with the same clipped authority he might use to direct military aircraft.
I showered, changed into the sleep shorts and oversized T-shirt I had shoved into my backpack before leaving home, then crawled into the guest bed and stared at the ceiling for what felt like three years.
My backpack contains one change of clothes, sleep clothes, my laptop, chargers, toiletries, and the remains of several terrible decisions.
I packed for approximately forty-eight hours of hiding.
Very optimistic of me.
I tossed and turned for a while, listening to the rain and every unfamiliar sound the cabin made. At some point, exhaustion won.
I slept.
Actually slept.
That feels strange considering the last two days.
I sit up and listen.
Nothing.
No voices.
No footsteps.
No threatening strangers demanding money I never borrowed.
The cabin is quiet.
Too quiet.
My stomach tightens.
“Gavin?”
No answer.
I climb out of bed, drag my curls into something resembling order with my fingers, and step into the hallway.
Still nothing.
The bedroom door across from mine is open.
Empty.
My pulse climbs again before I can stop it.
He left.
The thought hits harder than it should.
Which is ridiculous.
Gavin does not owe me twenty-four-hour visual confirmation of his existence just because I broke into his home and emotionally attached myself to his kitchen table.
I move into the main room.
His boots are gone from beside the door.
Okay.
Fine.
Maybe he went outside.
I cross toward the wide window beside the fireplace.
Then stop.
Oh.
Oh, that is unfair.
Gavin is outside on a covered wooden platform running along the side of the cabin.
Shirtless.
The universe, having apparently decided my current problems lack sufficient complexity, has removed his shirt again.
I move closer to the glass before dignity can intervene.
He is training.
Not exercising.
There is a difference.
Exercising is cheerful people wearing matching outfits while music plays and someone counts repetitions.
This is something else.
A heavy bag hangs from a reinforced beam at the far end of the platform. The boards beneath Gavin’s bare feet are still dark from last night’s rain, while the ground beyond them is soaked and muddy.
He moves through a sequence of strikes with quiet precision, his fists hitting hard enough to send the bag swinging.
Nothing is wasted.
No show.
No dramatic grunting.
Just controlled violence delivered by a very large, very sweaty man before breakfast.
My mouth goes dry.
His back flexes when he turns.
There are scars there.
Some pale and thin, others rougher, crossing muscle that moves beneath his skin with every strike.
His black hair is damp at the temples. Sweat gleams over his shoulders and runs down the center of his back.
He pivots.
My brain stops.
There is dark hair across his chest, narrowing over a stomach made of hard ridges and terrible intentions.
“This feels illegal,” I whisper.
Gavin drives another fist into the bag.
I should look away.
I do not.
He shifts into something faster, a sequence I cannot follow. Elbow. Turn. Strike. Low kick. His body is too big to move that smoothly, except apparently nobody informed his body.
Gavin catches the bag with both hands and stills it.
Then he lifts his head.
His eyes find the window.
Mine.
I freeze.
Maybe he cannot see me.
The morning light is probably reflecting off the glass.
Yes.
Excellent.
Science is on my side.
Gavin raises one eyebrow.
There is something knowing in his eyes now, a dark flicker of amusement that tells me he has absolutely noticed how long I have been standing here.
Science abandons me.
He crooks two fingers.
Come here.
My stomach performs a complicated maneuver.
I point at myself.
His expression does not change.
Obviously, me.
I briefly consider pretending I was looking at a bird.
Then I remember there are no birds directly in front of Gavin’s abdominal muscles.
I go to the door, shove my feet into my boots, and step outside.
The morning air hits my bare legs, cold enough to wake every cell in my body that Gavin has not already activated.
I cross the short stretch of damp ground to the covered platform and climb the two steps.
Gavin watches me approach.
And watches.
My confidence lasts approximately three seconds.
His gaze travels over the T-shirt and shorts before returning to my face.
Nothing about his expression changes.
That somehow makes it worse.
“Morning,” I say.
“Morning.”
His chest rises and falls hard.
I try very hard not to watch it.
I fail immediately.
“You were staring.”
My eyes snap to his.
“I was observing.”
“From behind a window.”
“It offered an excellent observational platform.”
One corner of his mouth moves.
“Come here.”
I look around.
“I am here.”
“Closer.”
That one word lands somewhere low in my stomach.
I walk toward him.
The heavy bag swings slightly behind his shoulder.
Up close, he is even more offensive.
Sweat darkens the hair over his chest. A bead of it slides from his collarbone, tracks downward, and disappears along the hard planes of his stomach.
My eyes follow it.
Again.
I am beginning to recognize a pattern in my behavior around this man.
Gavin notices.
This is humiliating.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You keep looking at me like that.”
My cheeks heat.
“Like what?”
His gaze drops briefly to my mouth.
I forget the question.
Then he steps past me and reaches for a towel draped over the railing.
“You said Kaden taught you self-defense.”
My brain takes a moment to catch up.
“He did.”
Gavin wipes the towel over his face and neck.
This does not improve matters.
“How much?”
“Enough.”
“That what you told the guy who grabbed you?”
My attraction temporarily loses a fight with irritation.
“I got away from him.”
“You did.”
He tosses the towel aside.
“But you tried the same kind of escape on me last night.”
“And you cheated.”
His eyebrows rise.
“You moved.”
“That’s usually allowed.”
“I was working with limited information.”
“You were trying to knee me.”
“You attacked me in the dark.”
“You broke into my house.”
“I picked the lock. We discussed the distinction.”
His mouth twitches.
Then he holds out one hand.
“Show me.”
“Show you what?”
“What Kaden taught you.”
I eye his hand.
“You want me to attack you?”
“I want to see what you know.”
“You saw some of it.”
“I saw what happens when you panic.”
I bristle.
“I did not panic.”
“You tried the right move against the wrong grip.”
That shuts me up.
Annoyingly.
He steps closer.
“I’m not saying you don’t know how to defend yourself.”
“Sounds suspiciously like you are.”
“I’m saying I want to know what you can do.”
Something about the way he says it takes the sting out.
No mockery.
No assumption that I am helpless.
He actually wants to know.
I fold my arms.
“Fine.”
“Grab my wrist.”
I stare at him.
“That seems underwhelming.”
“Hannah.”
I grab his wrist.
His skin is hot and damp beneath my hand.
This was a mistake.
“Now what?”
He closes his hand around mine.
“Get loose.”
I rotate toward the weakest part of his grip and pull sharply.
His hand opens.
I step back with a smug smile.
“There.”
He nods.
“Again.”
I offer my wrist.
This time his fingers close differently.
I turn.
Nothing happens.
I pull harder.
Still nothing.
Gavin watches me struggle for another two seconds.
“You’re using strength.”
“I’m beginning to take this personally.”
“Don’t.”
“I’ll put that in the suggestion box.”
He shifts closer.
“Turn your hand.”
I do.
“Not your arm. Your hand.”
His fingers adjust mine.
Heat runs through my palm where he touches me.
“Find the thumb.”
“I know.”
“Then stop fighting everything else.”
I glare at him.
His eyes hold mine.
“Again.”
This time I get loose.
Barely.
Satisfaction sparks through me.
Gavin gives one short nod.
The approval feels embarrassingly good.
“Again.”
We keep going.
Different grips.
Different angles.
He makes me repeat each one until I stop thinking about the steps and simply move.
At some point, I forget that I am supposed to be embarrassed about standing in shorts in front of a shirtless Gavin Mercer.
Then he says, “Turn around.”
I remember immediately.
“What?”
“Someone grabs you from behind. What do you do?”
“Depends. Is he six-foot-four and terrifyingly bossy?”
“Yes.”
“That narrows it down.”
“Turn around.”
I do.
Gavin steps behind me.
The air changes.
His hands settle lightly on my upper arms.
My skin prickles.
“Ready?”
Absolutely not.
“Yes.”
His arm comes around my middle.
Not painfully.
Firmly.
My back meets his chest.
Every coherent thought I have ever possessed leaves my body.
He is hot.
Everywhere.
His bare chest presses against the thin cotton of my shirt, and one large forearm rests across my stomach.
My stomach.
Naturally.
The part of my body I spend the most time pretending nobody can see is currently underneath Gavin Mercer’s hand.
I suck in instinctively.
His arm tightens.
“Don’t.”
My breath catches.
“Don’t what?”
“That.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“You pulled away.”
“I’m being held hostage before coffee.”
His mouth is suddenly much too close to my ear.
“Breathe.”
I do.
His forearm stays exactly where it is.
He does not shift away from the softness of my stomach.
Does not reposition higher.
Does not act as if touching me there is something to avoid.
His hand spreads a little wider.
My pulse jumps.
“Now get loose.”
Right.
Self-defense.