PRICE OF A KISS (Forbidden Men #1)

Chapter 2

Chapter Two

A year ago, I’d had grand plans of attending the local university in my hometown. It had a wicked, awesome medical program, and I’d dreamed of becoming a virologist, one of those surprisingly cool lab geeks you see on NCIS or some such TV show, who’s always studying bacteria under a microscope and solving the crime of the day.

Anyway, nearly four months ago, my plans for that perfect future had changed. Drastically.

I blame my psycho stalker ex-boyfriend. I mean, sure, I’ll take some culpability by saying I was a little too open about telling everyone where I wanted to go to college and what I wanted to become. He would know exactly where to look for me, meaning I could no longer go there. And yes, if I’d turned Jeremy down flat that fateful day my freshman year of high school when he’d first asked me out, we never would’ve dated, he never would’ve become obsessed, and I would’ve been able to avoid all of this. Sure.

But other than that, he was the sole reason I’d lost my big dream.

Because of him, here I was, hiding out halfway across the country, attending a no-name, small-town, lame-ass community college and living above my aunt and uncle’s garage. Talk about major suck zone. My life in the past couple of months had been nothing as I’d imagined it would be for my first year of college.

But seriously, no one had tried to kill me here, so I guess I couldn’t whine and complain too much.

Pity party cut short.

After Brit Lit with Eva, I had a free hour before my calculus class started. I spent that time stopping by the library. Since I’d been hired there as a work-study assistant, I still needed to talk to my new supervisor about a schedule. So we did, and I was pleased to learn I could weave all my work time in during the day between classes. I left my impromptu meeting with ten minutes left to find my math class.

I found it in five. Whoosh!

My calculus professor dove right into numbers and equations as soon as he skimmed over the syllabus. He was passionate about his numbers and equations too, which reminded me a lot of my dad, and made me a teensy bit homesick. But Dr. Kolarick kept us almost five minutes over, which my time-conscious father would never do. By the time he let us go, the next class had gathered outside in the hall and was ready to pile in.

I rushed, trying to hurry from my seat and get to Humanities next. But as soon as I stood and took two steps up the aisle between desk rows, one of the dangling straps on my book bag caught on a nearby chair and tipped the pack upside down, spilling all my belongings to the floor.

Horrified, I bent down and fumbled frantically to gather notebooks, texts, pens, and stray little pieces of papers with embarrassing doodles on them. Haphazardly shoving stuff into my bag, I was so busy watching what I was doing that I didn’t pay attention to where I was going. As I surged to my feet, I totally missed the guy coming down the aisle to find a seat for the next class.

That is, I didn’t notice him until I plowed into him, ramming my bag into a very taut, very sturdy stomach.

He grunted in pain, and I screeched in surprise.

I’d like to say I’m usually much more graceful. But I’m not the best liar in the world either, so yeah, I confess; I’m a total klutz.

Losing control of my book bag, I spilled everything inside onto the floor. Again.

Note to self: Zip my freaking backpack closed next time.

“Oh, my God. Sorry,” I said, instantly falling back to my knees. “I didn’t see you. I’m so sor—”

I glanced up and forgot what I was going to say.

From fifty yards, he’d taken my breath away. From ten feet, I’d been ready to have his babies. With a bare foot of nothing separating us in that cramped aisle between desks, there I was, on my knees in front of him.

Need I say more?

“Holy crap,” I squawked.

What the hell was he doing here? He wasn’t supposed to be here. Okay, maybe he was. I didn’t know his class schedule. But I certainly wasn’t supposed to be bumping into him…or sitting on my knees in front of him with my face mere inches from his—

Good God, how mortifying.

Hotness stared down at me, looking as startled as I felt.

“I…sorry—sorry.” I rushed out the words and blindly reached for my things, inadvertently shifting closer to his crotch as I snagged a handful of stray papers.

He lurched backward, dislodging two of my textbooks that had landed on his sneaker.

“Are you okay?” I bit my lip as I looked up, hoping I appeared as apologetic as I felt. But looking at him was always such a distraction. I was so breathless, I probably sounded like a one-nine-hundred operator when I said, “I’m so sorry.”

He had the look of a lifeguard with his lean build but wider upper body and defined muscles covered by some deliciously golden, sunbaked skin. His face was the most appealing feature about him. His incredible tan made the whites of his eyes and his perfect teeth stand out. It also drew more attention to his full lower lip, his dimpled chin underneath, and the gray intensity of his eyes above. Insert dreamy sigh here, because their brilliant pewter color reminded me of a cloudy sky right before a gentle rain shower.

“I’m fine.” He gave me a tight smile. A get-away-from-me-because-you-smell-bad kind of smile.

Oh, God. I repulsed him.

He finally bent down and retrieved the books that had been lying on his feet. When he handed them to me, I mumbled, “Thanks.” I was determined not to bawl in the presence of the gorgeous gigolo I repulsed.

Unintentionally—yes, unintentionally, jeez! —my hand brushed his as I took the books. Sparks of electricity shot up my arm. I gasped and jolted backward, shocked—both literally and figuratively—by the current that crackled between us. It nearly made me drop my books again.

Needing to know if he’d felt it too, I glanced up and shoved my hair out of my face, only to discover how strained and uncomfortable he appeared. His face had darkened to a dull red as if he were holding his breath to keep from smelling me. Every female instinct in me wanted to reach out and trace the wrinkles in his brow he was making as he frowned.

Must. Soothe. The hottie.

But really, why was he scowling? Did I honestly stink that bad? Or did he just not like making sparks with me?

Both options sucked.

Then it struck me. Maybe he hadn’t felt the sparks. Maybe he thought the way I’d yanked my hand away from his magnetic touch was rude. It would certainly appear rude if he had no idea what was going on in my head, which, wow, he really didn’t have a clue, did he?

Oopsie.

I opened my mouth to apologize, but he turned on his heel and slid into the nearest chair, avoiding me as well as giving me an open path to the exit—so I could leave him alone.

I blinked, deciding he was even ruder than I was. Would a forgiving pat on the arm or a simple it’s-okay, no-big-whoop have killed him? I really was sorry for bumping into him.

“Jerk,” I muttered to myself as soon as I lit out of the classroom and escaped.

Okay, okay, I suppose I could give him the benefit of the doubt. All hotties deserved a second chance, right? So…he might not be a jerk. I had been the one to plow into him and spill a load of books on his feet, and he’d actually been kind enough to bend down and pick them up for me. And just because a guy wasn’t big on the whole communication and I-forgive-you thing or obviously couldn’t smile did not automatically make him a jerk.

But it stung to consider the possibility that he just didn’t like me. Thinking of him as a jerk settled my ego much more nicely.

So, yeah. He was such a jerk face.

I lifted the collar of my shirt and sniffed. Smelling nothing but clean laundry detergent, a hint of my Sweet Pea lotion, and Fresh Breeze deodorant, I scowled. I did not stink.

He was definitely a jerk.

As luck would have it, the rest of my day was spill-free. I didn’t spot Hotness, the jerk face, again. And no one tried to stab me to death.

I’d call that progress.

The weather had warmed considerably since I’d left my above-the-garage apartment that morning. But, wow, was Florida hot and muggy in August, or what? I was so tempted to pull my hair up into ponytail to catch a little breeze that my fingers actually ached with the urge to start gathering stray strands.

Except the scar on the back of my neck was still pretty fresh—only four months old. Every time I checked a reflection of it in my hand mirror, the wound looked dark and ugly. So ponytails were completely out of the question. If too many people saw it and asked questions, I might get caught in one of my lies, and the truth would come out. That couldn’t happen. Ever. So I continued to hide it every day by wearing my hair down.

It was almost four in the afternoon when I returned to my new home.

Aunt Mads and Uncle Shaw had been amazing to let me stay there. I had been worried, what with Jeremy’s nasty death threat hanging over my head, that everyone would push me away as if I had the plague. I was dangerous to be around. But the Mercers had taken me in when I’d needed them the most. Plus I didn’t have to pay rent, a water bill, electric bill, or heating and air. Life—in that regard—was pretty spectacular.

My book bag weighed down one shoulder as I trooped up the steps outside my aunt and uncle’s four-bay garage. When I reached the top landing, I had to swing the bag’s strap around so I could fish out my apartment key I had tucked away in the front pocket.

Finding it exactly where I’d zipped it this morning, I pulled my key ring free, squinting as the brass surface glinted in the bright daylight, momentarily blinding me until I fit it into the lock and twisted the door open.

As soon as I stepped inside, I jerked to a frozen halt.

The newspaper I’d bought this weekend to search for a couple more part-time jobs was no longer sitting on the breakfast table, folded nice and neat where I’d left it this morning. The pages were opened and strewn across the floor while one sheet draped half off the table.

Someone had been in my apartment.

Fear paralyzed me in surreal waves. I’d trained for this, trained all summer with Eva and Aunt Mads at a self-defense class. And in none of my courses had the instructor said to stand frozen like a stupid nincompoop when the threat of danger arose.

Finally, I shook my head, denying it. He couldn’t have found me. Not yet. He was still halfway across the country with no idea of who or where I was.

Wasn’t he?

I tried to back out of the apartment; I told myself to run. But my sparkly ballet flats wouldn’t budge. I just stood there, too terrified to move, or scream, or even think.

Then the window-unit air conditioner kicked on. The sudden blast of frigid air caused the last bit of newspaper to soar off the table and flutter across the room until it floated down, adding to the already cluttered mess on the floor.

A relieved sob screamed from my lungs as I covered my mouth and wilted against the doorframe.

Not an intruder. It had only been the stupid, bleeping air conditioner. And, of course, the A/C hadn’t been running this morning when I’d left—it hadn’t been warm enough to kick on yet—so I wouldn’t have known it would blow the newspaper onto the floor.

Whew.

But seriously, talk about cardiac city.

Limp from the sudden surge of blood through my veins and then the just-as-sudden liberation, I staggered into the apartment. After slamming the door, I locked and bolted it. Then I collapsed onto the couch in a drained, hot mess.

I lay there ten seconds, trying to fight off the overdose of adrenaline in my system. But I felt eyes watching me from every corner, so I leapt to my feet and decided it wouldn’t hurt to run a quick check around the apartment to make sure no one was lurking about.

After what I had survived, it was smart to stay paranoid.

The newspaper scare left me rattled. Trying to do homework was an impossibility, so I spent some time writing in my notebook and signing my new name on a sheet of paper.

Mom had instructed me to do this in an attempt to help me get used to it. “When I was newly married, I used my maiden name more than I didn’t for those first five years. It wasn’t until I had to start signing it all the time that I finally adjusted.”

Well, I hadn’t gotten married as she had in order to get a new name, and I didn’t have five years to acclimate myself to being Reese Randall. Since I’d legally changed it to escape a psycho stalker ex-boyfriend, I needed to have my s**t together a bit more immediately.

I filled two pages and tried about fifty different signature styles. I’d just decided I could have heaps more fun signing the R in Reese than the boring ol’ T I’d had before, when my cell phone rang.

The number that appeared on the screen wasn’t programmed into my address book. I was instantly cautious. But I’d applied for a few job openings on Saturday, so—keeping my voice low and hard to distinguish—I answered in the hopes someone was getting back to me about employment.

And what do you know, someone was!

My work-study at the college library only covered ten hours a week. That was barely latte money. With Mom and Dad paying my car p*****t and insurance, plus sending me a monthly gas allowance, I was okay there. It was food and everything else I had to worry about. And honestly, after my first grocery-shopping venture with E. this summer, I was scandalized by how much food actually cost. I was so never going to whine again over how my mom had never bought my favorite brand of cereal and OJ. Name brands were utterly overrated. Except when it came to clothes. Or shoes. Or bacon.

Okay, okay, I loved all my name brands. Why, oh, why did they have to be so stinking expensive?

To say the least, a ten-hour-a-week job at minimum wage didn’t sound as if it would cover my lavish preferences, especially like an emergency shopping spree or trip to a hair stylist, both of which Eva and I had done just last week. Hey, I couldn’t help it if my cousin was a spoiled rich girl who needed to part with her cash frequently or she might become physically ill, and she felt the need to drag me along to every boutique and shopping mall she patronized.

I had to be a good, supportive friend and go with her, didn’t I?

Well, I went with her anyway.

So, yeah, I was thrilled to hear from Dawn Arnosta. A single mother with a twelve-year-old daughter, she had one full-time day job at a glass factory. But she also worked every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday evening as a waitress at an all-night café. With her last evening babysitter leaving for Gainesville to attend the University of Florida, that left a big fat opening…for me, I hoped.

I got some good vibes off Mrs. Arnosta, and I know I impressed her with my credentials.

“I know CPR and have first aid training, plus I used to babysit a special needs boy with autism when I was in high school. I also worked as a lifeguard back home at our city pool for one summer, so if you have a pool, I could totally handle that.”

Oh, how I could handle that.

Please, please, have a pool.

She didn’t have a pool, but that was okay, because she said, “Well, you certainly sound more qualified than any of the other applicants we’ve had. Can you start Wednesday?”

My heart thumped hard and happy in my chest. Fisting my hand, I mouthed the word, “Score!” while aloud, I remained much more professional. “Sure. Whenever you need me.”

And so I had a second job for the semester. I was super psyched about it…until I actually arrived at the Arnosta house.