Page 22 of Over & Out

“Hey!” a male voice calls just as I reach my car.

Adrenaline flares in my gut. I don’t have to turn around to know it’s Hopper. I’m surprised he didn’t send one of his lackeys after me.

“Chris!”

He’s still shouting, which means I don’t think he’s bothered to leave his doorway. He must be used to people falling all over themselves to do his bidding.

I ignore him, reaching for my keys.

“Can you hear me?”

“The whole neighborhood can hear you!” I call. Not that there’s anyone within hearing distance. The crowd on the balcony has gone silent, though, likely listening. I’m embarrassed, but whatever. Let them listen.

“Don’t get in the car!” he calls.

Ugh, he makes me incandescent with rage. “Not my boss. Don’t get to tell me what to do!”

My fingers shake as I try to jam the key into the lock of my ancient hatchback. Not because of him, of course. It’s cold out here and my fingers are numb, that’s all.

“For fuck’s sake!” I hear him utter. Then I hear the crunch of gravel, along with hissing and yelping and muted curses.

The keys fall from my grip, and I guess that’s the last straw, because I whip around, fists clenched.

I see now why he’s making all those weird sounds. He’s barefoot, doing this ridiculous dance across thesharp gravel pathway. It gives me the tiniest jolt of happiness.

“Please wait,” he says betweenoohs andaahs.

“Aw, did thatpleasehurt?” I reach down and swipe up the keys.

“No, but this fucking gravel does. What is this, broken glass?”

“Hope so.”

When he reaches the drive, he dashes the rest of the distance to me, his thick hair flopping against his forehead. Good lord, are his pecsbouncingunder that soft, torn t-shirt? He looks like a Roman god. With the personality of a Roman…dog.

To my shock, he doesn’t actuallystoprunning. He throws himself at the side of my car with an audible thud. The thing rocks as he knocks himself against it. I’m so alarmed, I drop my keys.

I reach down and grab them. But when I stand up, he’s unexpectedly close. So close I can feel the heat radiating off him. My skin prickles. I can see the thickness of his lashes, the fullness of his lips. I catch my mouth opening just slightly as I stare at them. Those icy blue eyes drag down, his gaze dropping to my mouth. Probably because I had to clamp down on my tongue before it came right out and licked my lips.

I snap my mouth shut, trying to find the words to tell him to move.

But he speaks first. “Don’t get in the car.” His voice is slightly hoarse.

I’m too close. That’s why he’s lowered his voice.

I take a step back. “I can’t,” I say tightly. “There’s a meathead blocking mydoor.”

One of Hopper’s full dark eyebrows drifts up, along with thosefuckinglips on the same side. “A meathead? Really?”

“Yes, really.” I have the strangest urge to tell him he looks ridiculous all beefed up like this. The Duke was never this jacked, and he was gorgeous. But I draw the line at body-shaming. Plus, who am I kidding? Hopper Donnach looks stupidly delicious. Perfect as the Duke and perfect now. The last thing I need is for him to know how familiar I am with his form.

“Would you scram?” I ask. I’m done with anything resembling pleasantries.

“Scram?” Hopper actually laughs then, folding his arms. His biceps pop, and I hate my eyes for dropping to them.

I hate his even more for following and smirking when he sees what I’ve done.

I grit my teeth. “Yes, scram.”

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