Page 10 of Let it Sizzle
I straighten a little, tug the sides of my dress like that’ll somehow hide the fact that my entire body just went warm and tingly at the sight of him.
God, get a grip, Serena.
You’re not fifteen anymore. You’re not hiding behind your sketchbook hoping he’ll look your way.
He stops a few feet in front of me, and just like that, the noise around us fades.
The laughter, the clink of tongs on aluminum trays, even Byron’s unmistakable bark of a voice—all of it slips into the background like it knows this moment doesn’t belong to anyone else.
Only me and him.
“Serena.” My name sounds different coming from him. Reverent. Like it’s been sitting on his tongue, waiting for permission to be spoken out loud.
I swallow, suddenly aware of everything—how my dress clings in the breeze, how my thighs are pressed together because my body apparently didn’t get the memo that we’re supposed to play it cool.
“Levi.” I manage to say it without my voice cracking. Barely.
He lifts one brow. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
I blink. “I’ve been standing in the same spot for twenty minutes.”
“Exactly. Which is why I’m impressed you’ve managed to make it look like you’re invisible.”
My lips twitch before I can stop them. Damn him. “Some of us don’t have the benefit of being six-foot-something with shoulders that block the sun.”
“Is that what you think of when you see me?” His smile is lazy, but his eyes—God, his eyes—burn straight through my dress like they already know what’s under it. “My shoulders?”
No, I think. Not even close.
I think of the scar on his bicep, the one shaped like a crescent moon that only shows when his sleeves ride up too high in the summer. I think of the veins on his forearms, thick and roped, the kind that press against his skin when he grips something—when he’s holding a hose or hoisting someone over his shoulder or wrapping his hand around a coffee mug like it’s built too small for him.
And God help me, I think about his hands.
Rough, sure hands. The kind that could pin me down without even trying, but would probably hold me like I’m breakable. Like I’m something soft he’s afraid to damage.
So no. I don’t think about his shoulders.
I think about all of him.
The parts no one notices. The parts I never stopped seeing, even after I left.
But I would never say that. Not out loud. Because Levi Mercer is the kind of man women dream about. The kind you pass on the street and spend the rest of your day making up stories about. The kind of man who makes you forget your own name when he smiles at you like that.
And me?
I’m just the girl who survived. The one who never quite figured out how to stand up straight after years of learning how to shrink. And the kind of woman men like Levi don’t go after.
“Errr, no,” I say, voice barely steady, grateful he can’t read the very R-rated slideshow playing in my head. “Your shoulders aren’t even in my top five.”
Oh crap how stupid of me to say that. Clearly I wasn’t thinking.
That grin spreads across his face like slow honey, and God help me, it hits me low in the stomach.
“Top five, huh?” he asks, stepping just a little closer. “Dare I ask what else made the cut?”
I take a long sip of lemonade to keep from blurting out your hands, your thighs, your biceps, your everything, and try to play it off with a shrug. “I have a strict no-comment policy.”
“Shame.” His eyes drop to my mouth. “I would’ve loved to know what else you’ve been noticing.”
