knew that voice. How did she know that voice?
Why did she know that voice?
The guy straightened to his full height. She heard a click, and then the room was filled with light from a lamp next to the couch.
Her bad guy was wearing a pair of army-green boxer briefs.
And nothing else.
Well, except a gorgeous body that appeared to have been chiseled with the same care and build of a Greek god, layered with sinew and sleek, tanned skin and dipped in testosterone for good measure.
Holy smokes. “Um.” She shoved back her hood. “I’m looking for Dustin—” But as she focused in on him, specifically on the tribal band tattoo on his biceps, she broke off her words. He had a tat on his pec, too, a military troop number, which was new, but the one on his arm was not, and her gaze jerked up to his face.
His voice had been familiar for a reason, and her confusion vanished, replaced by shock and surprise, and not a happy one at that. Yeah, she knew him—as the bane of her existence.
At least that’s who he’d been in high school—Jason Mauer.
Dustin’s brother.
He was staring at her, as well, full recognition on his face. “Wow. Lizzy Mann, all grown up.”
“I was about to say the same.”
At her bring-on-the-icicles tone, his lips curved. “So you’re still uptight and pissy, I see.”
“I have my moments. You still an ass?”
He laughed, the sound low and rusty, as if maybe he hadn’t laughed in a long time. “Have my moments.” He eyed her scrubs. “Dr. Mann now, right?”
Everyone in Santa Rey had known she’d gotten a full ride scholarship to UCLA to follow her childhood dream of becoming a doctor. Apparently he didn’t know that she hadn’t actually gone, that she’d stayed here and raised Cece, and was only now pursuing that dream again, thanks to a grant her hospital had just awarded her to go to medical school in the fall. “No. Just Lizzy. What are you doing here? I thought you were in the National Guard.”
“I am. Was.”
“You’re out?”
He spread his hands and lifted his shoulders, as if not sure. “In between gigs, I guess you could say.”
Because their last names had both started with M, she’d sat next to him in every single class from elementary school all the way through to graduation. She hadn’t talked much—she hadn’t been able to, what with tripping over her tongue every time she so much as looked at him.
Which hadn’t mattered because he hadn’t looked at her in return. He’d been far too busy being both a football and a basketball star. Oh, and being popular. And going after every girl in school—except her.
Yeah, when it came to Jason, her teenage memories were all some variety of the same theme—humiliation and resignation. That wouldn’t be the case for him. He’d been a restless student, far more into his sports than his studies, but it hadn’t mattered. Not with his easygoing, laid-back charm. The teachers had fallen all over him, always making Lizzy help him catch up when he missed school for a game. That she’d been so shy as to make that nearly impossible had amused him to no end. He’d spent endless hours entertaining himself at her expense, either making her repeat a lengthy explanation just to watch her trip over her tongue, or playing dumb until she’d lose her patience with him.
And then he’d lean back with all that athletic grace and gorgeousness, all stretched out and lazy as hell, and grin.
She’d hated him.
And she’d loved him.
Horrifying and simple as that.
It’d ended when they’d graduated. He’d left immediately for the National Guard, and she’d gone off to UCLA—except she hadn’t. Nope, her dreams had been sidelined when her parents had gotten themselves killed flying over the Grand Canyon in a stunt plane—their anniversary gift to each other.
And she’d given up her scholarships and stayed in town to raise her thirteen-year-old sister.
“So, talk about a blast from the past, huh?” he asked in that low, sort of gravelly voice that used to make her squirm in her seat.
Yes, but since that past, she’d found her guts and courage, and now her tongue behaved, never tripping her up at the sight of a cute guy.
“Married with kids?” he asked.
“No.”
He smiled. “Not feeling that big three-oh breathing down your neck?”
“No.” For most of the time they’d ever spent together, she’d either wanted to kill him or have his babies. Apparently that was still the case. God, she’d been so young, and very naive, and she hated that reminder. If he’d so much as quirked a smile in her direction, she’d have done anything he wanted. Luckily, he’d never known the power he’d held, and she was no longer that girl. Nope, she was a twenty-nine-year-old woman, who absolutely did not want to think about his smile, and the way it still activated all her good parts.
It’d taken a long time, but painful experience by painful experience, she’d toughened up, learned to speak up for what she wanted. Mostly, she’d also learned that things worked out much better when both parties were enamored.
Not that that had happened in a while. After a series of missteps in the man department, mostly due to her own inability to fully connect to someone because when she was so busy with Cece, she’d decided to try something new and had gone off men altogether. Cristina had joined her for a while, but then she’d done the unthinkable and fallen in love with Dustin.
Leaving Lizzy alone on her penis embargo.
Well, not completely alone. Her sister had far more reasons than anyone to give up on men, as she’d just about tried the entire male species, at least all the wild ones anyway. She looked at Jason. “Definitely not feeling the big three-oh breathing down my neck.” Her life was just beginning, actually. “Do you know where Dustin is?”
“I don’t.” He stepped toward her, the light from the lamp bathing him in a soft glow that only emphasized the gorgeousness up close and personal. She tried not to stare at him and failed.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
The closer he got, the harder it was for her to breathe, so no. No, she wasn’t okay.
Not by a long shot.
Her legs had turned to overcooked noodles at first sight of him and, despite her resolve, her brain had gone to mush. She could tell herself she’d gotten over him a damn long time ago, but the truth was, if he so much as crooked his pinkie finger in her direction, she was going to regress to that pathetic teenager she’d once been, and melt in a little puddle of longing at his feet.
Lord, this would be so much easier if he’d put some clothes on—
The wind cracked,
