"You're mysterious as hell," I shoot back instantly, before I even get a look at the source of the voice. "So I guess we're even."
Ok, I think I managed to cover that cringe yelp. I hope so, I sounded like a strangled squirrel.
I spin around, heart trying to escape through my ribs, and find myself facing a man leaning casually in the doorway behind me.
Oh, shit.
I mean this sincerely. If there's a hotline for men who radiate unsafe levels of raw, testosterone drenched charisma, I need the number. Immediately.
He's tall, no wait, massive. Throwing me over his shoulder would be no problem at all. Shoulders that won't fit through doorways, hands that belong on warning labels, you know what they say, big hands, big….
Enough of that.
This is a man built when the universe got drunk and tried to sculpt intimidation out of sex appeal.
Dark hair pulled back into a loose tie at the nape of his neck with strands escaping. Men like this shouldn't be allowed to do the lazy bun thing. It's unfair to the rest of us, scrambling for dry shampoo and praying for dignity.
He's gotta be a lumberjack going off the flannel shirt, unbuttoned, of course it is. Done on purpose to give me a peek of the lines of his huge chest, covered in tattoos. The sleeves rolled halfway, forearms tanned and veined.
I'm staring.
Obviously I'm staring.
But he's staring back, and not in a flirty way. He's studying me, noticing details, cataloguing.
His eyes track from my scuffed boots to the rat's nest I call hair, then back up to my face, slow and unashamed. There's no heat in it, no clear judgment, no performative masculinity. Just... assessment.
I can't decide if I'm horny or offended.
Probably both.
Definitely both.
My breath sticks in my throat, then slides out in a laugh. I shift my weight, cock my hip, and pretend I'm not internally panicking. I've met men like this before, commanding, magnetic, terrifyingly attractive.
But none of them have ever made my skin crackle.
That's the only way I can describe it. Like something in the room shifted when he walked in, the oxygen itself decided to start vibrating. Some ancient, primal part of me, buried deep, under sarcasm and caffeine addiction, goes very still.
My instincts aren't scared.
They're interested.
Which is worse. Because my main character delusion has evaporated, I feel like prey.
"I'm Corrian," he rumbles. "You're Frankie."
I have to physically hold myself back from biting my lip at the tone of his voice, which vibrates through my ribs.
"I am. And you definitely don't look like someone who runs a daycare."
"You don't look like someone who could pass a background check."
"Touché." I snap back with a wink and finger point. Smooth Frankie, real smooth.
He waves me into the room behind him and I step through, only slightly concerned I'm about to be murdered. It's some kind of office, or lounge? The lighting's soft, a kettle whistles in the distance.
Corrian grabs a folder from the table and hands it to me, gesturing for me to sit down in one of the oversized, comfy chairs.
"Standard HR nonsense. Ignore it."
The folder's empty. My brows pull together, I open my mouth to say something, but the door creaks.
Hold my ovaries, another one walks in. No, that's wrong, he intimidated the door out of his way.
A wall of muscle. Corrian is stacked, this monster is something else. A giant with the stillness of a person who knows how to break someone in half without even breaking a sweat.
This one moves like a predator trying to pretend he's just here for the snacks.
Oh shit, the snacks.
I squeak, making both men jump, sling my backpack onto my knee and fumble with the zip. I spent most of my remaining cash getting snacks. I went for cheese strings, gummy bears, lollipops, pretzels, mini chocolate donuts and juice pouches.
Grabbing at the packets, I start filling the small coffee table in front of me.
While I'm fussing, I sneak a look at the one who just came in. The man mountain is wearing a tank top that's losing the battle against his shoulders, and black joggers that hang low enough to make my internal monologue slide to horny new places.
Every inch of him is covered in bruises, calluses, scars that look earned. Freckles are scattered across golden-tan skin, they suit him, blood spatter on sun-warmed armor. They dust his cheeks, shoulders, chest, one right on the curve of his jaw that is seriously biteable.
Down Frankie.
His jaw is square and set, nose slightly crooked from a break that never healed right. A faint scar curves along one eyebrow and cuts down through the corner of one eye, not enough to ruin the symmetry, definitely enough to ruin my life.
It's the hair that's 100% going to be my downfall. Full undercut, the mohawk is long, braided in a thick rope that hang down his back, brushing the back of his thighs. From further away, it totally looks like a spine he tore out of his nemesis as a trophy.
Tattooed runes crawl up the sides of his scalp, curling just behind his ears. There's another tattoo, black, angry script, scrawled across his collarbone in a language i've never seen, but want to taste.
Seriously, down girl. You've been around hot guys, been with hot guys, get a grip.
It's boiling in here now. I pull the scrunchie from my wrist and stretch up to tie my thick, black, annoyingly unruly curls back off my neck. The baby hair underneath is stuck to my neck with sweat. I need air.
Out the corner of my eye, I see them both freeze at my movement.
Both sets of eyes trained on me. But the new boy's breaths are forcing the expanse of his chest up to his chin. Something is plastered across his face, that if I didn't know better, I would say in rage.
The two men exchange a look, Corrian shakes his head once, the man mountain clears his throat, then heads to the corner of the room, pretending to check a clipboard. His eyes keep sliding back to me.
Time to break the tension.
"Snacks."