Page 15 of Own the Eights
He shouldn’t be surprised. Ripped torso and shoulders that would put a linebacker to shame, he often left women stunned. And, as his blog popularity had grown, more people around the city had started to recognize him. But there was something in her expression that surprised him. A thread of derision he wasn’t used to, or at least, hadn’t experienced in a long time.
She studied his face. “You have a dimple.”
“Yeah?” he answered, smile fading.
Who the fuck was this? She certainly wasn’t anyone he’d ever crossed paths with—or had he? He’d seen her somewhere.
“Brice Casey,” she said under her breath, venom lacing each syllable.
It was his turn to study her. “No, sorry, that’s not me.”
She shook her head as if she were shaking off a memory. “Can you help me catch my dog? I think we can cut him off. There’s a fence, so he’s got to come back this way after he’s done chasing that damn squirrel.”
Jordan glanced at his watch. Shit! He was cutting it close as it was.
He needed to get back to the gym and make sure one of the other trainers could close up, then get home and grab a quick shower before heading downtown to the CityBeat offices.
The breathless woman threw up her hands. “Hey, shirtless man! Woman in need! Can. You. Help.”
He met her gaze. Women didn’t talk to him like this.
“Yeah, I just…I have a thing to get to,” he stammered.
He didn’t fucking stammer.
She huffed out an audible breath. “So do I. A life-changing thing. But I have to catch my dog first. Can you help me for two minutes?”
He glanced at the animal, running from tree to tree. “What’s its name?”
“Hisname isMr. Tuesday,” she answered.
He reared back. “What kind of name is that?”
She pressed her hands to her hips. “The name he had when I adopted him from the shelter.”
“You could have changed it,” he countered.
“Well, I didn’t!” She narrowed her gaze. “Are you always this unpleasant?”
Unpleasant?
No woman had ever called himunpleasant. And she seemed to be completely unaware that she was near eye to eye with his sculpted chest and carved abs. That alone should have had her biting her lip and gazing at him through batted eyelashes.
But not this bohemian, cardigan crusader with a pair of glasses hanging on a chain around her neck.
“I don’t even know you, lady.”
“Thank God for that,” she huffed.
He bent forward. “Hey, messy bun girl, you need my help. How about a little gratitude?”
She gasped. “Did you just call me, messy bun girl?”
He raised an eyebrow. “You’ve got one, right?”
She reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and he flexed his hands.
Did he want to be the one brushing her chocolate brown locks from trailing across her face?
