Room Service

A man stepped into the elevator. He wore black Levi’s and battered boots, and a black long sleeved shirt with the pink HUSH logo on his pec.

His eyes were covered with mirrored aviator sunglasses, and when he shoved them to the top of his head and looked at Em, her heart stopped. Not because he was drop-dead gorgeous, no that description felt too neat, too pat, too . . . GQ. In fact, he was the furthest thing from GQ as she’d ever seen..

He was tall, probably six four, all tough and rangy and hard-muscled. His hair was cropped extremely short, and was as dark as his fathomless
eyes, set in a face that could encourage the iciest of women to ache. And in that face she saw a full life, as if maybe he’d lived every single of one his years as fast and hard as he could.

Which wasn’t to say he wasn’t appealing. In truth, she couldn’t tear her eyes off him. But she could tell he was the kind of man who would worry a mother, the kind of man a father sat on his porch holding a shot gun for. He seemed . . . street, tough as nails, edgy, possibly even dangerous.

And then he smiled.

Yeah, big and rough, and most definitely bad ass. This was a man who’d seen and done things, the sort of man who could walk through a brawl, give as good as he got, and come out unscathed.

A warrior.

Em would have sworn her heart gave one last little flutter before it stopped all together.

But the most surprisingly thing was what he said.

“Good, you’re here.”