A Little Too Twisted

Prologue

A Little Too Twisted. All rights reserved.

Diana

He is the kind of man who walks in a room and the atmosphere changes. He doesn't move slow or fast, but his pace tells me he knows his purpose, and knows it well, and that he is where he needs to be.

He is intimidating.

I don't know what it's like to be in his shoes, but I know nothing is as painful to me as the attention from a crowd. I am happiest to be in the background. But he doesn't ask for it; it's simply given to him. I don't know him well enough to judge if he is uncomfortable with it or not, but his eyes seemed unaffected.

He has a face with striking features—like a villain you keep thinking about long after the movie is over. I don't want to be drawn to him, but there is something about him that is compelling.

Maybe it's his eyes. They are not friendly. There's something in them that makes him burn hot. It pulls and it pushes me away. The few times when our eyes met, it was impossible for me to maintain eye contact.

He never smiles.

He interests me, but only in a way that a lamb would be to a lion. I see him, I run away.

Liar.

The wind blows and whips my long hair across my face as I make my way out of the university grounds. A strand gets trapped in my mouth. I blow it out, careful not to spit my saliva at the guy walking slowly and texting in front of me. If I don't walk ahead of him, I will be collecting my pension from the government by the time I get to my car.

I skirt around the walk-and-text guy, quickening my steps as I round the corner. The sound of my stomach growling reminds me I haven't eaten all day. Pizza would be really good right now. I check my wallet. It's still as empty as it was this morning.

I smile and don't let it deter me. I can just drop by at Michael's pizza parlor, see if my friend Wild is working. Sometimes customers don't pick up their orders for various reasons, and Michael lets Wild bring a pizza or two or five home. When Wild isn't too tired to walk a flight of stairs from her apartment to mine, she'll bring me some too. But tonight, I'll try my luck and go there. Because free food.

It starts raining by the time I reach the parking lot. The rain is warm and soft on my face, and I don't run for cover as others around me do. I like the rain; it comforts me.

"Pardon me, miss."

I know that voice—that rich, deep baritone. I whip around. My heart jumps in my throat as I see Lucas Thorne. I stop and resist the urge to run to the opposite direction.

He crouches to the ground, picks up a wallet and hands it to a woman standing in front of him. She is staring and obviously very distracted by his face. He tips his head and walks away from her. She turns to watch him.

He has already forgotten about her. I watch him and notice that he doesn't run either. He doesn't have to.

He is lean and tall and the dress shirt and pants he's wearing are perfectly tailored to show off his wide shoulders, his trim waist, his long legs. But the sophistication of his attire only emphasized the toughness in him. He is built like an athlete, a boxer, a street fighter.

The rain has turned his blond hair darker. He stops in front of his black truck, presses his thumb on his bottom lip. And just stands there. What is he waiting for?

I don't wait to find out. This time I run to my car, throwing all my things on the passenger seat.

I guess there have been too many accidents in the parking lot, because how else would they explain the ten thousand stop signs? This place is a labyrinth. It takes me a moment to find the exit.

On my nine thousand nine hundred ninety-ninth stop sign, I crawl and don't stop until the car on the opposite stop sign stops first. I rather let the other car go first. It doesn't.

I look up at the driver. My throat feels dry. It's him again.

He waits. A spike of irritation travels to my throat. It shocks me—the reaction I have every time I see him. Years of capitulating to a mother who treats me more like a friend than a daughter had trained me into a very patient human being. I don't get irritated easily; I don't have a short temper. Or at least I like to think so.

Then what is this?

He looks amused. I stubbornly press my lips together. He has turned this into a challenge. A game.

I'm not budging.

A car stops behind him and honks. And yet he doesn't move. What is wrong with this guy?

My instinct is to give in, don't argue. I hate confrontations. This attitude makes my life easier and harder at the same time, but I can't help it.

Without realizing it, I am stepping on the gas. My eyes move to Lucas Thorne's face. I grip the steering wheel in my hands.

He's still at the stop sign. He's not moving. His eyes track me as I pass him. But there is something different about him in this moment. I can't put my finger on it.

I head to the pizza parlor, parking my car one street over because all the spots are taken. The place is buzzing with patrons. I slide out of my car, close the door. Suddenly it hits me.

Lucas Thorne never smiles. But at the stop sign when our eyes met, I swear I saw a smirk on his mouth.