Page 16

His jeans fit like they'd been personally blessed by the denim gods, and his large hands rested loosely on his thighs. I had no business noticing his thighs. Especially while recovering from a panic attack. But there they were. Being all muscular and distracting.

And then there was the smell.

Fresh soap, cedar, sunshine, and the kind of bad decisions that ended with a woman sneaking out of a man's bedroom wearing yesterday's underwear and a very satisfied smile.

My stomach flipped.

Again.

Honestly, the thing was becoming a liability.

The most annoying part was that Damon wasn't even doing anything. He wasn't flirting or flashing that devastating smile. He was simply sitting beside me, breathing steadily, as though keeping me company on a dusty barn floor was exactly where he wanted to be.

Without realizing it, I started matching him.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Again.

Eventually, the tightness in my chest loosened. My heart stopped trying to escape through my rib cage, and the world came back into focus.

Once I returned to my own body, no longer floating above it, and my lungs were back under my jurisdiction, I was annoyed. Irritated. Mad. At myself for letting someone see me in such a vulnerable place.

I didn’t do vulnerable. I was not a damsel in distress. I was the CEO of a billion-dollar empire.

I stuffed my anxiety down and turned my attention to him, intending to reiterate my earlier claim that he could go, this was not, in fact, an open forum for spectatorship of my breakdown. But I made the mistake of meeting his eyes. He was regarding me with an alert, appraising patience, like a poker player waiting for the river card. It was more unnerving than any pity party could have been.

"You don’t need to babysit me.” I reworded my earlier sentiment, this time trying to reassert some semblance of dignity. “I've resumed breathing without adult supervision."

He didn't move.

"Sometimes it helps to have a spotter."

I blinked. "Excuse me?"

"In the gym. When you're lifting something heavy, a spotter makes sure you don't get crushed."

"I know what a spotter is, Damon. Thank you for the unsolicited episode of Men Explaining Things."

His grin widened. "You're welcome."

"That wasn't a compliment."

"I've learned to take what I can get with you."

I rolled my eyes. "Seriously. You can go."

"Nah. If I leave now, you'll be stuck alone with your thoughts. Feels irresponsible. Like leaving a toddler unattended with a staple gun."

I turned my head and stared at him. He smiled. And there went my stomach again.

For someone nicknamed The Heartbreaker, Damon Lockhart had the energy of an oversized golden retriever. A ridiculously handsome golden retriever with tattoos, a chiseled chest, and absolutely no respect for personal boundaries.

"So," he said casually, stretching his long legs in front of him. "You wanna tell me what happened out there, or should I make something up?"

"Nothing happened," I lied.