Murder_ A Sinful Secrets Romance - Ella James Page 0,32

I draw a deep breath of chilly air.

“I wanted to say one thing…about the other day. That is: my dad was in the Army. I have a lot of respect for combat vets. Honestly. I just act like a dolt around you. I was tactless and I’m sorry.”

“I don’t think I’d say that.” He looks down at his left arm, where a watch would be. When he looks back up, his face looks pained. “So your father. Army?”

Awkward. He’s trying to make small talk, but he definitely seems uncomfortable now.

I nod. “He was a bomb squad guy.” My eyes tear up with zero notice, and I want to give myself a throat-punch.

He nods slowly, as if he’s taking that in. “Great guys. He still active duty?”

I swallow, trying desperately to keep my eyes dry. “He passed away last November,” I manage with a stiff spine.

I’m puzzled when he turns away from me and takes a step inside. A moment later, he turns back, empty-handed, and then surprises me by stepping out onto the porch.

I eye his plain white undershirt, loose jeans, and bare feet. “Don’t come out here. It’s cold.” I fold my arms over my chest in demonstration.

He smirks. “It’s not that cold.”

“To me it is.” I hug myself.

It’s hard not to be aware of how attractive he is when he’s standing right in front of me. Attractive, and massive, too. I wonder how long he works out every day.

“You want a jacket?” he asks.

What is this? I swallow. I’m supposed to say, I need to go now, but the words get stuck.

I’m looking up at him like a pilgrim at a shrine. I fell him step in closer, then his arm comes heavy around my back.

“Thanks for the cake,” he says.

I feel his eyes on me, the hard warmth of his body against mine. I stand there holding my breath, waiting for him to let go of me so my heart can resume beating—but he doesn’t. He just stands beside me, his big arm around me, like we’ve known each other our whole lives and are good friends.

I try and fail to breathe. My stomach sags into my knees.

“You’re tall,” I manage, awkward as fuck; I dare a glance up at him.

He nods. He lifts his arm off me, but doesn’t step away.

I fold my arms around myself and watch his brows scrunch, like I’m a bug and he’s a scientist.

“Thanks for the cake,” he says again. He puts his hands in his jeans pockets, casual although his eyes on mine feel hot. “I meant to tell you, the kick was good.”

I laugh, widening my eyes up at him. “Really?”

I have to struggle not to stare at his muscular arms, showcased by the way he’s got his hands in his pockets. We’re standing close enough that we could be eighth-graders at a school dance.

He smiles, dimples and all. “You have surprisingly good form, considering your ankle.” His smile falters.

I press my lips together. “What about my ankle?”

“You have pins…right?”

I make an “o” of my mouth, tres dramatique. “How the hell do you know that?”

He crouches down by my feet and tips his head up, giving me a view of mostly his curls and his eyes. Then he looks down, laying his hand over the outside of my ankle. “Pins and maybe a screw or two on this side?”

“What are you? Some kind of Fucked-Up Ankle Whisperer?”

His hand curls around my leg, making my body burn so hot I worry I may spontaneously combust. Then he stands, shaking his head. “A friend of mine had similar range of motion. Not as good as yours, though. He did one tour after that—after the surgery to put the ankle back together—and that was it. It wouldn’t hold. He’s an instructor now.”

I wonder what that means—what kind of instructor?—but I don’t ask. I nod.

“I noticed you as I walked by,” he goes on slowly. “I had stopped to watch you, how you moved, and when I saw you saw me, I thought I’d come and introduce myself.”

I bring a hand up to my face and nod my head. “That makes sense.” My tone sounds sarcastic, even though I’m not. I’m just embarrassed.

He doesn’t speak, just looks down at me with one side of his mouth curved in a sympathetic kind of look.

“I’m glad you could appreciate the kick.” I step away from him, because my cheeks are burning—again.

He shrugs. “I’ve done some martial arts instructing.”

“What? So—wait a second. How’d I get the