Page 6 of Reckless Love

If just the sound of his voice is this destabilizing, I’m in serious fucking trouble. I stare at my shaking hand. Fuck.

“You must be Landon,” he says, and I picture him crouched in front of my son. He always liked kids, so he’s probably smiling, showing a side of himself he rarely gives to adults.

The idea of my two worlds meeting is enough to make my knees threaten to buckle.

“I’m Landon!” my son agrees. “My mom’s coming.”

“Where’s your dad?”

“At work. He works a lot.”

“Come in,” the maid says. “Ms. Tucker must be delayed.”

“I’m here,” I say, forcing myself to have the courage to round the corner. I step out, still holding onto the wall, and almost immediately, I wish I’d stayed hidden. Given the choice, I might hide from him forever. “Stephen.” I breathe out his name.

“Mrs. Santos,” he says with a sharp nod.

His posture is stiff, which only makes him seem taller in his expertly tailored suit. There’s still a substantial bit of space between us because the front foyer, much like the rest of our residence, has more room than anyone would need. He walks toward me, and instinctively, I back up.

Landon stares up at Stephen while they come closer as though he’s watching a superhero moment in real life. Stephen’s always had that kind of presence, and it’s part of what drew me to him when I was a teenager. So tall. So broad. A dark-haired, brown-eyed Thor who used to be able to steal my breath with a glance. From the first time he pulled me over for speeding and then let me off with a warning, I knew he’d be mine. He took a bit of convincing, but once he was in, he never said no to me again. About anything.

When he gets close enough and our gazes connect, I don’t know why I never realized that his golden-brown eyes are the same shade as my favorite scotch.

Suddenly, I’m thirsty.

“Owen?” I manage to get the word out around the lump in my throat.

“He’s being well paid elsewhere, so I’ve been given the lead on the Santos file.” He tips his head toward the interior of the house. “Is there somewhere we can sit?”

Instead of listening, I’ve been stuck on the movement of his lips, and now I’m cataloging his face, noticing the lines at the edges of his eyes, the tiny scars along one cheek. The urge to run my thumb across them, ask him for their story is so strong that I inch closer, rise a little on my toes.

“This way,” the maid says.

I startle at her voice and step back from Stephen.

She throws me a concerned look as she leads Stephen into the main living room with Landon still trailing them, in awe.

She has every right to be concerned. My body has been taken over by aliens, and those aliens are rioting. Seeing him again has thrown me so off balance that I almost can’t breathe. But watching him walk away for a moment, I notice a small hitch in his step, which never used to be there.

Scars on his face. An imperfection in his step. Where the hell has he been for the last six years? Has he been working for Owen all this time?

Rage replaces whatever I was feeling two seconds ago as I click my heels across the tiled floor behind them. He owes me answers. I deserve answers.

Showing up out of the blue like this is bullshit. He doesn’t get to ghost me and then appear six years later on my doorstep, calling me Mrs. Santos like his tongue didn’t map every inch of my body for years.

“What are you doing here?” I ask when I finally get to the living room and notice that the maid has left with Landon.

“I thought that was obvious,” he says, giving me a mild look. “I work with Owen. I’m assigned to organize protection for you and your son.”

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

He doesn’t say anything, merely opens a file folder on the coffee table and takes a pen out of the bag I didn’t see him carrying. Doesn’t everyone use a tablet or a laptop now? Who still uses a pen and paper? The pen seems almost comically tiny in his hand. He clicks it open and then glances at me. “I have some basic procedural questions.”

Instead of sitting, I cross my arms and glare at him. I hate how my heart throbs, as though the sight of him is physically strenuous. Like I’m in the middle of a marathon, and I have no idea where the finish line is. I am not a marathon runner.

“You’re thirty-two?” He draws his index finger across the page, and I remember the way that same finger would travel down my body, closer and closer to where I wanted it, where I needed it.

“And you’re forty,” I say. “We know each other.”