In the aftermath of her twin sister's tragic death, Reagan Sinclair finds herself in a never-ending battle against paralyzing panic attacks and drowning in grief. Desperate to just survive each day, Reagan's world is turned upside down when Paris un...
Mom: That's great to hear, honey. Tell me if anything comes up. I love you.
Reagan: I love you too.
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SOMEONE IS KNOCKING ON my apartment door, and it's insistent and annoying, and I just want to sleep. I blindly reach for the phone under my pillow to check the time, and It's six thirty in the morning! Why is someone knocking on my door at this ungodly hour? I groan expletives into my pillow before dragging myself out of my bed and trying to remember if I ordered anything while zombie walking to the door. I stayed up half the night writing and then rewriting something for Political science because I kept getting distracted, and I can't remember if I ate anything after that one pop-tart. Needless to say, I feel like shit. I'm halfway to the door when I notice the pot filled with pasta and water sitting on the kitchen counter that I never got around to boiling. And lying next to it is a half-eaten granola bar. I stop my stride and reroute to the kitchen, putting the pot in the fridge and throwing the granola bar in the bin. I'm just about to make myself a cup of coffee when a series of knocks on the door set me back on my original task.
My breath hitches in my throat when I open the door, and I feel my eyes widen. I look up.....and up because the guy is probably a good six feet, some inches, and definitely not an Amazon delivery guy. The man staring back at me with green eyes the colour of a forest in summer is the type of handsome that gets into your bones, the type that makes you stop in your tracks. The lower half of his face is covered in stubble, the same colour as the dark hair on his head, and it makes him look rough. Like a mountain man. For some reason, the sight makes my stomach clench.
I drop my eyes, my gaze drawn to the colourful tattoos decorating his neck and going up the sleeves of both his massive arms. His shoulders are wide enough to block the hallway beyond. Jesus, what did they feed him growing up? Fertilizer? The man is a mountain of rolling muscle, an image right out of ancient Greek fantasies.
“Are you Reagan Sinclair?” He grunts, bringing everything back into focus. I hadn't realized I'd spaced out.
“Uh…. Yes?”
He offers me his hand to shake, and my hand is completely lost in his. “Paris Rothschild,” he says with a voice like bottled thunder. I pull my hand out of his grip as soon as it's long enough to be considered polite, ignoring the tingles left behind. His name sounds familiar, but my sleepy brain is too tired to figure out why.
“I'm sorry, but why are you at my door?” he frowns, looking at me with a confused tilt of his head.
