Page 53 of Collide
But that little piece of mystery clings to the back of my mind.
What exactly does Alex do for work, and why is he going to be in San Diego, of all places?
And why won’t he tell me?
Before I can dwell, a cool droplet lands on my arm.
Glancing up, I notice the sky has darkened once more, and another drop hits my forehead.
“Shit,” Alex hisses, right as the sky splits open.
The rain pours down in sheets, drenching us in seconds.
We scramble to toss our rubbish in a nearby trash can, laughing breathlessly as Alex tries in vain to shield me with his body.
It doesn’t help.
The rain soaks through his white shirt, making it cling to him, outlining the solid lines of his chest, his broad shoulders, the ridges of his abs.
I wet my lips at the sight.
Before I can get lost in that thought, Alex hastily flags down a cab.
We jump in, shivering, breathless, soaked through, our laughter still hanging in the air between us as Alex leans forward, relaying the destination to the driver.
I glance over at him.
“Looks like the open-air cinema is off the table.” He sighs, shaking his head.
His hair is damp, messy, and his shirt? Completely ruined.
And yet, somehow, he’s never looked better.
Arriving in NoHo, we take refuge from the downpour within the sleek confines of Alex’s modern, masculine penthouse.
Penthouse. So he’s clearly successful at…whatever it is he does.
And yet, he’s so damn evasive about it.
Maybe he’s in the CIA. Or an assassin.
Is there such a thing as a Swedish mafia?
The rain drums steadily against the windows, as do my nervous thoughts, a rhythmic hum filling the space as I step inside, shaking the chill from my bones.
It dawns on me—I’m inhishome.
Soaking wet.
We’re alone.
“Welcome,” he says. “I’ll be right back.” He flashes me a charming smile before disappearing down the hallway.
His home is tidy, modern, with an open-plan kitchen and living space. In the corner, there’s a study nook filled with books, various vintage cameras, and a desk with his laptop. Black and white photos match the monochromatic scheme of the home.
Alex returns moments later with a fluffy white towel and hands it to me, my clothes clinging to my skin. I wrap it around myself, self-conscious about how my damp clothes expose every curve of my body. I’m a walking wet t-shirt contest.
“Nice place,” I murmur, shifting under his gaze.
