Daring Devlin (Lost Boys #1) - Jessica Lemmon Page 0,82

he stood, I averted my eyes from his well-built physique to his short, shaggy mass of sandy brown hair, and my heart stuttered in my chest.

Every inch of him was hot. From a pair of midlength sideburns to the holes in his ears where the piercings had closed because he no longer wore the studs. Tattoos snaked up his left arm, intricate designs, some colored, some not. An array of animals and symbols, metaphors for what I had never found out. Not that I had asked. There were lines we didn’t cross, and his tattoos were one of them.

When he smiled, a dimple dented one cheek, and if he really smiled, you could see rows of white teeth—not too white—he wasn’t battling a coffee addiction with Crest Whitestrips like I was.

In the case of my wayward attraction to Cade, the culprit was my ex-boyfriend, Tony. If Tony hadn’t been such a dickhead, we could be looking for an apartment together and planning our engagement. He was going into sports medicine, I into physical therapy. We had similar upbringings. Similar goals. Similar interests. Well, save one. Tony Fry was most interested in seeing how many women he could date without the others finding out, and I was more of a one-guy type of girl.

That was where our paths had ultimately veered.

Cade crooked a finger, motioning for me to come closer. I took one cautious step. Then another. He smelled of motor oil, which wasn’t bad. Not on him. It mingled with the scent of his soap and gave him an earthy yet dangerous quality. Plus, Cade looked damn good with oil on smeared on his shirt and across one cheek.

His eyes dashed to my lips, and back up, and then . . .

I was looking at his back as he walked away from me. Not into the entrance to the house on the right of the garage, but through a door on the left. Curious, I followed.

The door opened to a flight of stairs.

Okay.

One foot after the next, I followed, then at the top I peeked around the doorway. I blinked, stunned.

“Whoa.” I had no idea this room existed. The Wilson house was large, and I always assumed that behind the windows over the garage stood some sort of attic or storage space. Maybe they used to be, but now the space resembled an apartment. Not as big as mine, but much bigger than the bedroom Cade had formerly occupied.

His bed stood in one corner, the mattress bare. A kitchenette was on the far wall, outfitted with a small sink, microwave, and refrigerator. Open boxes were stacked in the room, along every wall, and flanking an attached bathroom.

“Nice place,” I commented, meaning it. And an improvement from sleeping across the hall from his father.

Cade brushed by me and walked into the kitchenette, then stood with the refrigerator door open and took a few slugs out of an orange juice carton. My eyes flickered over one rounded muscular shoulder and down the curve of thick biceps, then got lost in the maze of ink swirling over his flesh.

His hair was damp with sweat, one droplet trickling down the side of his neck. I watched it slide down his throat and disappear into his T-shirt, all the while reminding myself that sweaty guys dashed with motor oil were not attractive.

Parts of me listened. Other parts of me did not.

Cade Wilson looked like no other law major I had ever seen. I liked boys in khakis. Oxford shirts did it for me. Well-groomed, well-spoken. Those were qualities I didn’t only admire, I required. But with Cade my response was off the grid. Carnal. Basal. Against my better judgment over the last few months, I had become inexplicably attracted to his shaggy, messy, never-styled hair. I liked the dangerous quality of the ink on his body. I liked the way he eyed me through that light brown stare of his, with a combination of spite and curiosity.

I understood because I’d been looking at him much the same way for a long time.

We had a history. It wasn’t a good one.

“You’ve gained muscle,” I commented. It wasn’t a flirty comment, more a professional observation. Improving bodies was my job. Noticing his went with the territory. His broken arm had hampered his weightlifting until the bone healed, but he had more than regained the muscle he’d lost.

He licked a droplet of juice off his lips and I dropped my backpack on the couch, unfazed by his tongue