down a tree. The new homeowner. But it doesn’t really sound like that, and anyway, it couldn’t be the new owner. The offer was only just accepted.
Thwak!
I should go home. Instinct tries to tug me that way, but curiosity pulls harder. It’s my nature. I walk deeper into the woods, hating the crunch of my boots on the dry leaves. My hand is still in my pocket, because if someone was watching me—and I tell myself they’re definitely not—I wouldn’t want them to know I have a gun on me. Not yet.
Thwak!
I walk about twenty more yards before it’s unmistakable: the sound is coming from the land to the right of me, from the Haywood property.
Probably a workman.
Thwak!
The sound is so loud, it rings so clear through the quiet woods, I’m almost sure now: it’s a bow. Suddenly I remember I have my monocular. I can feel it up against my middle finger’s knuckle, in my pocket by the gun. I use it to bird-watch sometimes.
I lift it to my eye and look around, but I’m not at an angle where I can see the land directly behind the Haywood house; it sits on ground a little higher than my own.
I curve back into the woods before resuming my straight line toward the Haywood place. If someone is shooting arrows at a target, I don’t need to get too close.
I stop again and look through the monocular. And there he is. This…man. I stare for a long moment, my lungs emptied of air, my throat tightening with something that feels an awful lot like pain. I don’t even blink, so my eyes water a little. But I can’t take them off him. It’s as if my entire being is holding still while the imprint of him is recorded somewhere deep inside me.
The sensation is uncomfortable. Achy. I draw a deep breath, and my brain seems to un-freeze. My eyes leap into action and start cataloguing details. As soon as my heart releases its grip on me, it’s pathetically obvious why I reacted so viscerally to him.
The man is stunning. Stunning. I’ve seen more than my fair share of beautiful men—models for Ralph Lauren, Armani, Versace, Calvin Klein, Abercrombie. I used to shoot alongside them. So I can judge him with authority.
I breathe gently and roll my gaze over him a few times, like a talent scout seeking a flaw. I find nothing, neither in his technique with the bow nor with his aesthetics. I blink a few times, trying to shake off the dazed feeling I have, before I study each fine feature, starting with his hair. It’s black—or very dark brown—and it’s somewhere on the line between short and long. I think it’s curly. Yes, it must be. It’s not long enough to be a bona fide mane. The curls are more like cresting waves. They shake a little as he takes an arrow from a small, vertical wood box on the ground beside him. I note a curl that’s pasted to his forehead.
His skin is slightly pale, and damp with sweat. My gaze drifts down to his dark brows. They’re model eyebrows: thick, strong slashes that command my gaze. Beneath them are a pair of long-lashed eyes that might be gray or blue. They’re beautiful and shrewd. No doubt about that. His eyes are in the running for Most Prominent Feature. Below them, he’s got a strong, straight nose—actually…it might be ever-so-slightly crooked; I can’t tell from here. It’s framed by high, stark cheekbones that lend him a slightly feline look. His ultra-light beard—only a little more than a shadow—is just enough to give his jaw delectable definition. And his lips. Dear God. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen more gorgeous full and sultry lips.
The wavy hair, the piercing eyes, that godly mouth— the way those lovely features contrast with his sharp bones, the straight line of his nose and the cut of his jaw, the roughness of the dark beard and the slight circles underneath his eyes— It’s damned impressive. Classic.
Armani? Or maybe he’s more Dolce & Gabbana? Definitely not delicate enough for Ralph Lauren. Probably not quite slim enough for Calvin Klein.
He’s like a next-gen Peter Badenhop. And wouldn’t that be fun? Peter is actually super nice and down to earth.
My gaze lingers on the slight furrow between his brows as he notches the arrow with his right hand and slowly draws the cord back. For a second I’m distracted by the way he holds the