hidden beneath. A clean-shaven, strong jaw softened by a slight sexy clef to his chin. His green eyes are so pale they’re almost translucent. Windows to a soulful man, or just the opposite? His nose is slightly crooked, like it’s been broken before. But it’s his hair that throws me off and, in a strange way, calms my nerves. It’s a rich chestnut color and long, though it’s difficult to say how long as he’s twisted it neatly up into a bun. Yep, he’s sporting a man bun, which I’d find hilarious if he didn’t make me so bleeding nervous.
I find myself comparing his dark good looks to the other man—that player, Jaxson. With his tight polo shirts and seductive smile. He had this raw kind of sexuality that instantly—or should I say intuitively?—catapults him to the top of my Hot Male Bucket List. A list consisting of . . . one. Yeah, call it what you will.
I bet that player’s bed is never empty.
“You find something amusing?”
I jump. Hayden’s voice is quiet yet still menacing. Jesus, that bump on the head knocked the sense straight out of me.
With a fierce scowl, he taps his pencil on the stack of papers. Thump. Thump. Thump. Until my fingers itch to snatch it from his hand and ruin the steady drumbeat while he waits for me to respond.
I wait for a chance to remind him this isn’t the Dark Ages, that you can’t just forcibly kidnap someone, knock them unconscious, and then treat them like some wide-eyed intern on her first job interview.
We wait and wait, in a battle of wills. Although I might be slouched nonchalantly in the chair before him, my spine is as straight as they come—stubbornness being a character trait I’ve perfected out of necessity.
My mother and Madelyn must be worried sick. And at this rate, we’ll be at this all day.
“What do you want?” I demand.
He stares at me, assessing me. Like a chess master gaging the worth of his opponent as he moves his piece into checkmate. Dangerous, I remind myself, struggling to control the anxiousness rolling around in the pit of my stomach.
“Answer my first question. Why have you been spying on the compound on the edge of town?”
“I’m curious.”
“Bullshit.”
Thump. Thump. Thump. Our eyes connect and hold. His harden, shooting daggers at me. The words Don’t fuck with me unspoken, yet as loud as thunder within his unforgiving depths. A shiver runs down my spine as I realize how threatening this man truly is. Still, I struggle not to look away.
He tosses a familiar black pocket-size notebook onto the desk. I grip the chair arms as he recites my annotations from memory.
January 22, 4:27 a.m.-Twenty-two pricks unload twelve heavy burlap bags.
January 29, 4:35 a.m.-Eighteen pricks unload fifteen bags.
February 5, 4:21 a.m.-Twenty-five pricks unload thirty-three bags.
“I’ll ask you again. Why are you spying on them?”
I shrug. “They’re up to no good.”
Hayden snorts.
“You agree?”
“You’ve got balls and work well under pressure, I’ll give you that.” He picks up his pencil yet cuts me a break by not thumping it. Placing his forearms onto the desk and leaning forward, he stares at me up and down. “You’ve got a set of guns on you. Can you fight?”
“You looking to find out?” I shoot back, my tone cocky despite how nervous I feel sitting before him. Right after Franco DiCapitano and his mob associates began filtering into town—along with their drugs, money, and poor taste in clothing and cars, favoring 1970s polyester suits and gas-guzzling sedans—my father enrolled me in intensive self-defense classes over in Dayton, a short ride from Shelby. An old army buddy of my pop’s ran the class, though he never went easy on me. By the time I turned sixteen, I could break a man’s nose, bring him to his knees, and put a serious hurting on his baby jewels. Matter of fact, if it wasn’t for Mama falling ill along with the fact that I’m a rule bender not follower, I’d have enlisted in the army by now.
“How about weapons?”
“I spent some time at the firing range.” Yeah, Pop saw to it that I could accurately handle both pistols and rifles. Some of my fondest memories are of us shooting cans out of the air. Two scientists chuckling over the precision of each spot-on shot. God, do I miss him.
“Good enough.”
I frown. “Why do I feel like I’m being interviewed?”
“Tell me why you’ve been documenting the compound’s activities and we’ll chat about why I