Page 11 of Breaking Free

“That’s the reason you shouldn’t walk around with your face in your phone. When out alone, especially after dark, you should always be cautious and ready to respond to potential threats.”

She tipped her head to the side as she looked up at him. “Are you implying you’re a threat?”

He frowned, insulted by the question. “I’m one of the good guys. Try being more careful.”

“Of course, you’re right.” Her quick surrender and cheerful smile caught him off guard. “Are you heading out for the night or just getting in?”

Soft and slightly throaty, her voice captivated him, as did the subtle scent of her perfume, a delicate floral-and-vanilla blend. Tristan cleared his throat, shifting restlessly in an attempt to ease the unwelcome stirring of his body and the sudden tightness of his jeans.

It proved to be ineffective, and his response, “Out. To unwind for a bit,” came across sharper than intended.

Piper nodded, her eyes lingering on him for a moment, her expression reflecting a mix of curiosity and something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

“Have a good night, then.” She slid her phone from his fingers with the same bright smile and continued on to her door.

His gaze traced the graceful line of her neck exposed by her pinned-up hair, moving down her spine to her delectable ass in a skirt so damn tight, he was amazed she could walk.

A woman alone who took undue risks triggered his instinct to protect, if not his good sense. “Cautious also means not wearing that skirt again,” he called to her.

She halted, glanced down at herself, then at him. “What’s wrong with my skirt?”

“It looks painted on. You’re asking for unwanted attention.”

“It’s a pencil skirt,” she explained, bristling at his critique. “It’s supposed to be formfitting.”

“You should have a man to keep you safe if you wear something like that.”

She stared at him in disbelief. “Do you hear yourself when you speak? I’ll remind you this isn’t 1950.”

“I may sound sexist, but I’m in the security business and know what I’m talking about.”

He’d seen too many victims, mistakenly assuming everyone honored their rights, fall prey to predators. If she belonged to him, she could wear whatever she wanted, and he’d make sure she was safe.

Warning bells went off in his head. When did “if” replace “never” and his sweet, younger, hot-as-fuck neighbor who was totally off-limits become his, even hypothetically? The idea both excited and terrified him.

Since she wasn’t his, and never would be, all he could offer was advice. A list of self-defense classes in the area slipped under her door wouldn’t hurt, whether or not she followed his recommendation.

Before he pissed her off further, he headed for the gate. Too late. The echo of her infuriated growl—also hot as fuck—followed him.

When he reached the parking lot, he hit the button on his key fob to unlock his truck. Behind the wheel, he paused for a deep breath, trying to clear his head of Piper. But that skirt had burned into his brain, as much as her smile and her scent.

AFTER HIS WELL-INTENDEDalthough poorly delivered advice, a week passed with Tristan not seeing Piper at all, which was undoubtedly for the best. But another tense encounter with her was preferable to what he knew he would face when he walked through the side gate of the community center.

It was a rare Saturday afternoon that he didn’t have to work. As such, he could think of a million other places he’d rather be than at a pool party. Digging a ditch and seated in the dentist’s chair for a root canal topped the list. But he’d never hear the end of it from Hunter if he didn’t at least put in an appearance.

Tristan often questioned his unlikely friendship with his TV director neighbor. Apart from being dominants at the same club, they had nothing in common. As an introvert, he liked to keep interactions with people to a minimum. His co-workers at Rossi were the exception, but they shared common interests and pasts.As for the club itself, he tolerated it because it satisfied a primal urge—less so recently.

Hunter, on the other hand, was the ultimate social butterfly. He didn’t just enjoy attending gatherings and parties; he actively organized and hosted them. His calendar was filled with a range of events from the monthly munch—a casual meet and greet for the kink-minded and kink-curious usually held at a nearby restaurant—to get-togethers for his vanilla friends whether it was a USC football watch party, a gourmet dinner at his place to try out the latest vintage from a new winery he discovered, or booking a venue for an occasion like today’s pool party.

Despite Tristan declining his invitations 99.9 percent of the time, Hunter never failed to extend them—except when it came to football.

Attending today’s event would get Hunter off his back for at least six months. A year if he actually got wet, but that wasn’t happening. If he even owned trunks, which was doubtful, he had no idea where they might be. He planned to cool off with a beer, instead, engage in some brief chitchat, and head home.

As he turned at the corner of the building, laughter, splashing, and the scent of cocoa butter greeted him. It reinforced how much he wasn’t in a party mood, but he could suck it up for fifteen minutes. After all, how bad could it be?

When he pushed through the gate and saw bathing suit-clad tanned bodies standing shoulder to shoulder on the pool deck and wall to wall in the water, he adjusted his estimate. Ten minutes. That’s all Hunter would get.

“I need a beer,” he muttered, heading straight for the tiki bar tucked away in the corner. As he wound through the sea of people, “Spicy Margarita,” the most annoying song of the year, blasted from the speakers. “And to put up with this shit, it better be ice cold.”

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