Page 34 of This Life of Mine

Then the dining room. Nothing. Just gym equipment, protein powder, workout supplements, and protein bars.

Lastly, the kitchen. I open a drawer, and it’s filled with protein bars. Another drawer. More protein bars. The pantry—a storage bin with more fucking protein bars.

What kind of psychopath has this amount of fucking protein bars?

I begin checking the expiration dates.

Why am I checking the expiration dates?

I don’t fucking know. At this point I’m committed.

And what do you know, half of them are expired. The man can’t even manage his protein bar responsibly.

Jesus Christ.

Does this guy eat anything else?

How about some actual fucking protein? Like chicken, you dumbass.

By the time I’m back in the living room, I’m convinced Reese did his research well. EJ isn’t a threat. He’s an overgrown teenager with a gym membership and a marijuana habit.

I glare at the idiot sprawled out on the couch wearing only sweatpants with a half-eaten protein bar sitting on his bare chest.

The television lights flash across his face, and I sneer at him with disgust.

This is the guy? The guy Lina spent weeks sexting? The guy who thought sending shirtless mirror selfies counted as flirting?

I examine him more thoroughly and regret it. The asshole is objectively attractive.

I hate him far more now. The man has enough muscle definition to be used in an anatomy textbook.

Though I’m bigger and carry just as much muscle definition, the bastard is still attractive. And knowing Lina plans to fuck this guy tonight makes my jaw tighten hard enough to crack a tooth.

The more I learn about him, the less I understand what Lina sees.

Maybe that’s the jealousy talking. It’s definitely the jealousy talking.

Why the fuck am I jealous?

I don’t care. I’m allowed a little irrationality. I’ve spent weeks watching her smile, listening to her laugh. Trying to come up with excuses to stay at the bakery longer than necessary.

Meanwhile, this idiot manages to get her attention by taking his shirt off and discovering the front-facing camera. It’s offensive, really, and I’m fully annoyed.

I spent hours combing through everything I could find on him, expecting something to surface. Maybe even hoping to find something so I can take the fucker out.

Instead, I found a stoner passed out on a couch.

I mutter and curse myself as I finish positioning the last camera over the couch and check the feed on my phone.

Living room, check. Kitchen, check. Front entry, check

Perfect. Mission accomplished.

I turn towards the exit and halt when I hear…

“Dude.”

All the muscles in my body tighten as I brace myself and turn around.