Page 5 of His Son's Ex

Broad. Solid. Unyielding.

He doesn’t stumble. Doesn’t flinch.

Just stands there like a mountain I ran into at full speed.

He smells like leather and quiet power.

And something expensive and deliciously masculine and vaguely dangerous.

My hands land on his chest.

Holy mother of upper body strength.

Who is this man?

I look up.

Silver-streaked hair. Strong jaw. That perfect hint of stubble.

And those eyes—hazel with gold edges.

Unshaken. Unapologetic.

Un-fucking-real.

He’s a silver fox.

Not “hot for his age.”

He’s hot. Period. Full stop.

End of me.

“Careful,” he says, voice rough and low.

Midnight gravel over velvet.

Why does his voice sound like something I’d download on a sleep app just to make bad decisions?

He doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t leer.

Just watches me like he’s not surprised I ended up in his arms.

Like he called it.

“Wouldn’t take you for the clumsy type,” he murmurs.

I swallow. “I… uh.”

Get it together.

Words. Normal ones.

He tilts his head slightly. Watches me like he’s waiting to see if I’ll bolt or melt.

And damn if his proximity doesn't make my knees forget their purpose.

"Sorry, I'm usually better at staying vertical," I finally manage to say as I brush imaginary lint off my dress.

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