Heartbreaker (Unbreakable #1)(12)

And my body warmed the instant he texted late that night.



You got regular shoes?



Amused at the blunt question, I replied.



REGULAR shoes? And don’t FRIENDS get a hello first?



A blue bubble appeared as he typed.



NOT shoes with TOES. Tennis shoes… Cross-trainers…



Mmm-hmm…



Not answering until you say it.



A good ninety seconds ticked by before his reply.





H E L L o


I pressed my lips together, fighting a smile.



Cute. Swearing AND a greeting, rolled into one.



After a few more seconds, another text flashed up.



I’m talented like that. Well?



Tired eyes drooping shut at the midnight hour, I replied before I passed out.



Yes. I have regular shoes.



I fell asleep during the unlit silence that followed.

In the morning, I’d found his last text.



Good. Wear em.



No “please” or explanation had come with it. Only an order barked through in text form.

Fine. Two could play at his game. He wanted to be bossy? He wanted to pound the point of being “just friends” home? I would be the best friend he’d ever had.

Of course, while I demonstrated my stellar friendliness, no harm in highlighting my best qualities: flirtatiousness, adorableness—sexiness.

“Wait. Can I be both adorable and sexy?” I questioned aloud while driving in my empty car.

After I turned onto Lexington Avenue, I straightened in my seat. A quick glance in the rearview mirror made me smile. Hair in a fluffy ponytail, cheeks lightly pinked, a swipe of mascara on my lashes, and a dab of lip gloss? Check for adorable.

A smile tugged at my lips as I thought about what I’d worn: tropical-flowered sports bra, low-cut T-shirt, and hip-hugging yoga capris. Nothing else but plenty of skin? Check for sexiness.

After I swung right to curve along a roundabout, then pulled into a small parking lot, I blew out an anxious breath. Why so nervous? I shook my head.

“Rely on your instincts, Kiki. You got this.” Flirtatiousness? I had down cold. Pretty much had since birth.

Confident with all the stealthy weapons in my arsenal, I turned off my car. I twisted toward the back seat and grabbed my bag and water bottle.

Yet when I opened my door and put my tennis-shoe’d foot onto the asphalt, I frowned. Then I double-checked the address. “2450.” The numbers, plain as day, were in big bronze letters above commercial double doors on a massive brick building.

Right address. Wrong assumption.

For some reason, I had thought I’d be meeting him at his place.

Even with my sunglasses, I raised a shielding hand over my brow to block the glare of the morning sun. I stared for a confused few seconds at the nondescript building. Then my gaze panned to sprawling grounds off toward the right.

The neighboring property resembled an abandoned school—with no school buildings. Instead, brick structures appeared to have been converted into quaint apartment homes. Pretty awnings covered large windows. Colorful spring flowers lined sidewalks that led to brightly painted front doors. Playground areas were filled with a collection of toddlers, moms, and strollers rather than older school-aged kids.

But I’d parked next to Darren’s black F150, so I’d apparently found the right place. I adjusted my bag onto my other shoulder, shut my car door, and walked toward the entrance.

After tugging open one of the heavy metal doors, I propped my sunglasses on top of my head as I followed the distant sounds of low grunting down a dimly lit tiled corridor; half of the dozen overhead florescent lights had burned out. Around the corner, the stark hallway ended in a set of gray double doors, the right one had been propped open by a weight bench.

Four guys occupied what appeared to be a converted basketball gym: one skipped rope, one lay on a bench while lifting a barbell below his spotter, the last was separated off in a far corner. Although the large space felt comfortably cooled, three oscillating fans hummed along the perimeter, sweeping back and forth in out-of-sync cadences.

Since logic told me the fourth guy had to be Darren, I gravitated toward him. And as I approached, I watched his prone body lower, then lift.

Lower.

Lift.

My breath caught and my stride slowed as I drew closer. My mouth gradually fell open. My eyes widened.

Shirtless, baseball hat spun backward, hands sunk into silver metal pails of sand, he performed the most unique pushups I’d ever seen. His skin glistened with a sheen of perspiration under the section’s brighter lights. Taut muscles along his back, shoulders, and arms flexed under the strain of every measured drop and rise.

The world around me seemed to stop—except for him. Art in motion. Beauty in action. Every woman’s fantasy-come-to-life coalesced into one surreal moment where my mind fabricated my body beneath that incredible male form, under all that raw muscle and energy.

On the next downstroke, he paused. Then he glanced up. His gaze locked with mine.

Busted.

Yet powerless to stop myself, I studied the rigid contours of muscle as he held that position. The artist in me flared to life, imagining those lines sketched in charcoal. His tattoo. My gaze lingered on three thick curving tribal-style crescents. The largest began at the base of his neck, where its tip fanned into multiple points. Two smaller crescents overlapped tips with the first, each arcing a different direction, one toward his back, the other curving beneath his arm.