Page 11 of Puck Sweat Love

A sense of humor on a sexy man is my kryptonite.

Before I can offer a flirty comeback—or retreat to the lobby to get my head on straight—the front door chimes. I glance toward the open studio door to see a familiar figure sauntering into the lobby.

An unwelcome familiar figure…

It’s Drake, wearing his usual “I’m a genius rock god forced to sell real estate for my rich father ” outfit of torn black jeans and a vintage band t-shirt, his dark hair artfully tousled in a way I know takes ten minutes and three different styling products.

“There’s my queen,” he exclaims, spreading his arm wide. “I was hoping I’d catch you between classes.”

My entire body tenses. “I told you I was busy, Drake. I’m sorry, but I don’t have time to?—”

“I know, I know, but it’ll only take a few minutes. We always talk things through better in person. You know that.” His eyes dart to Tank, who’s still crouched on the floor petting Mr. Sniffles, before sliding back to me. His tone is notably cooler as he adds, “I didn’t realize you had company.”

Tank says nothing. He simply stands up, rising to his full height in one smooth, measured motion. But I swear, I can suddenly feel his energy prickling across my skin, vibratingthrough my bones, his presence expanding to fill the entire room.

This man has an aura unlike anything I’ve experienced in real life, and a part of me instantly decides he could benefit from a Reiki treatment to help him hold onto some of that power instead of letting it pour out of him like an energy tsunami.

The other part of me just wants to stand in the path of his energy and let it wash over me until I’m tingling all over…

Reminding myself how much trouble “tingling all over” caused me the last time I started crushing on a bad boy, I prop my hands on my hips and say firmly, “My five thirty students will be arriving any minute, and I have to get a new student set up with a class pass. Whatever you need, Drake, it’s going to have to wait.”

Drake’s features shift into that wounded puppy expression he’s perfected, the one that used to be so good at making me feel like the bad guy. “Relax. This won’t take long. Just give me five minutes.”

I sigh, but before I can respond, Tank murmurs, “She said she’s busy. You should leave.”

His voice is low, casual, but carries an unmistakable warning.

Drake blinks, clearly taken aback, but his temper doesn’t flare the way it usually would.

But then, he isn’t used to being the smaller man in a room. Drake is a massive guy, but Tank is even bigger, a fact my ex takes a moment to soak in, his eyes flicking over Tank’s imposing frame, lingering on the tattoos visible beneath his t-shirt, his scars, the set of his jaw.

“And who are you?” Drake asks, but his “tough guy” voice is thinner than usual.

“Doesn’t matter who I am. It matters whosheis. And she’s a business owner who’s busy and deserves to have herboundaries respected.” His tone—calm, matter-of-fact, but with that undercurrent of steel—sends a shiver down my spine.

Or maybe it’s the fact that someone’s bothering to stick up for me besidesmethat has my knees feeling weaker than they did a moment before. My entire life, I’ve been the only one who had my back. I moved around too much as a kid to make ride or die friends, and my parents were the kind of people who preached “turning the other cheek” religiously.

And I agree. Most of the time, I’m a lover, not a fighter. I almostalwaysturn the other cheek. But when I can’t, when I have to draw a line in the sand…

Well, it’s always hard. Stressful.

But when Tank does it?

It’s weirdly not anxiety-provoking at all. It’s actually kind of nice.

Drake exhales a sound somewhere between a snort and laugh. “Seriously, Steph? You’re going to let this guy speak for you? That doesn’t seem like the proud black queen, I know.”

I barely resist the urge to roll my eyes. If another white guy never calls me a “proud black queen” again it’ll be too soon. Especially Drake. You don’t get to ignore my request to leave me alone and praise my “proudness” at the same time.

I’m just done with his nonsense. Totally done.

I point to the door. “Go. Now. If you do, I’ll call you when I’m done with class. If not, I’m blocking you, Drake.”

“But Steph, I?—”

“Goodbye, Drake,” I cut in, widening my eyes, hoping he can see that I mean business.

After a tense beat, he lifts his hands in surrender. “Fine. I’ll be up late. Call whenever.” He backs toward the door, shooting one last glare Tank’s way before he turns and charges through the lobby, slamming the door behind him.

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