Page 8 of Twins for the Enemy

No one answers. It looks like I'll be adding trespassing to my list of crimes.

I take a few careful steps inside, stopping at the center of the entryway.

"Hello?" I call out.

I listen. The buzzing is too loud to determine which direction it's coming from, but on the threshold to the room on the right, I notice a trail of sawdust. I follow it like it's rose petals. With the amount, I half-expect to find a tree at the end of it.

But instead of a tree, I find a man.

A tree of a man, sure, with his height and broad shoulders. His back is turned toward me, bent over as he uses a table saw. He's not wearing a shirt, the muscles in his back flexing as he holds the wood steady.

My heart beats faster. I imagine my hands tracing along his shoulder blades. I imagine his hand off that piece of wood and cupping between my legs.

Do pregnancy hormones hit this early?

I knock on the wall, not wanting to interrupt his work. My hand is lightly trembling. It must be from the hunger.

He doesn't respond. I need to catch his eye.

I slowly move around the room, staying far enough away that if he strikes out because he thinks I'm an intruder, I'm out of range. It's a skill I learned from growing up around my father—if you can't stay invisible, stay beyond their reach.

When I see his face, it's like plunging down on a rollercoaster—my thoughts whipping around, my stomach flipping, and a mix of fear and excitement flooding my bloodstream.

His hand moves slowly, pressing down on a large red button. The saw turns off. He jostles his dark hair, sawdust falling out of it.

"Oh," I say. "I didn't know it was you. It was... you never told me your name."

Kieran Ragdon. When I'd first heard it, I'd assumed he'd be some rich asshole. I didn't expect it to be the man who carefully wrapped my hand and took my virginity in a way that blurred the line between aggression and security.

"The rate was ten dollars an hour, right?" he asks.

I furrow my brow. I can't tell if he recognizes me or not. What are the chances it was a coincidence?

"Yeah," I say. "That sounds good."

"Under the table," he says.

"Yes."

He's gazing at me, his expression cold. I run my fingers through my hair. I never thought I was that beautiful, but since I've been on the run for two months, I feel like I was dragged through a dumpster. My hair keeps getting in tangles, which gives it a wheat-like texture. Deep shadows press under my eyes, making me lookmuch older than twenty-two, and the cracked lips don't help.

It's completely possible he doesn't recognize me. I'm not sure I would recognize me. I changed from a young adult to a ruined runaway.

"Is there a reason for that?" he asks. "You'd make much better money doing legitimate work."

I shrug. "It's complicated."

"Almost as complicated as your name. Jessica Smalls," he says.

He rubs his shoulder. As the shock wears off, I take in his body. I'd been so overwhelmed the first time we slept together that I didn't fully appreciate it. A swimmer's body—bulky, but only with muscle.

"Are you related to Ambrose Smalls?"

"Uh, no," I say. "I have no idea who that is."

"Are you sure?" he asks. "He livesin Chicago."

"I've never been to Chicago," I say firmly. "Small-town girl. Hate the city. Do you have a preference for which room I should start with?"

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