Total pages in book: 49
Estimated words: 46078 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 230(@200wpm)___ 184(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46078 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 230(@200wpm)___ 184(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
And therein lies the problem.
I want to stick close to him. Too close.
It’s only been one day in this safe house, and I’m already losing my mind. Not because I feel trapped, but because he’s here. Everything about him—the way his dark, unreadable eyes flick over me when he thinks I’m not looking, the way his broad shoulders seem to fill every doorway, the quiet confidence in his movements—makes it impossible to focus on anything else.
Right now, I’m sitting on the cozy white sofa in the living room, my jewelry supplies spread out on the glass coffee table in front of me. A crystal pendant rests cool and smooth against my fingertips, the soft light from the windows catching the stone’s facets and throwing tiny rainbows onto the table. Usually, working on jewelry is my escape. It calms me, grounds me, lets me channel my restless energy into something creative.
But not today. Not with Ranger in the room.
He’s leaning casually against the doorframe, his large frame nearly blocking out the hallway behind him. His arms are crossed over his chest, the fabric of his black T-shirt pulling taut over his biceps, and his gaze is locked on me with an intensity that sets every nerve in my body on edge.
He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t have to. His presence alone commands the entire room.
I try to focus on the pendant, picking up a tiny silver clasp with trembling fingers, but my hands feel clumsy and uncoordinated. Normally, this would be second nature, but under his watchful eyes, I can’t seem to do anything right.
Why does he have to look at me like that? Like he’s studying me, trying to figure me out, peeling back the layers I’ve spent years building to keep people at arm’s length.
The worst part is, I want him to.
I sneak a glance up at him, hoping he’s turned his attention elsewhere, but no—he’s still watching me. His dark eyes are locked on mine, and for a moment, I can’t breathe. My cheeks burn, and I quickly look away, pretending to focus on the necklace again.
This is ridiculous. I’ve always been composed, confident in my own quiet way. But one day with Ranger, and I feel like a nervous wreck. My pulse races every time he’s near, my thoughts scatter the moment he speaks, and the way his voice rumbles through the air? It’s like he’s rewiring my entire nervous system.
I grip the clasp tighter, trying to steady my hands, but it’s no use. The truth is, I don’t feel like myself around him. I feel… exposed. Vulnerable in a way I’ve never felt before.
And the craziest part? I don’t hate it.
I glance up at him again, just for a second, and catch him shifting slightly, leaning one shoulder against the frame. His gaze softens—not by much, but enough to make my heart skip a beat. It’s like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me, and he’s giving me just enough room to flail without drowning.
But it’s not just his presence that’s messing with me. It’s the way he makes me feel seen, like I’m more than just the overly protected, science-obsessed daughter of my father. Like I’m not invisible.
I take a deep breath, setting the clasp and pliers down and lean back into the cushions. The crystal pendant gleams on the table in front of me, unfinished, but I can’t bring myself to care. Not when Ranger is standing there, a living, breathing distraction I can’t seem to shake.
The thought makes my cheeks heat all over again, and I drop my gaze to the pendant, pretending to examine it like it’s the most fascinating thing I’ve ever seen. But the truth is, there’s only one thing on my mind.
I try to keep my head down, pretend I don’t notice the way his gaze feels like it’s burning through me, but it’s no use. My pulse races, my hands tremble slightly as I think about it.
This is new.
This feeling is new.
Yes, I’m a virgin. Overprotective father, remember? But I’ve experimented. And that’s all it ever was—experimentation. I’ve kissed boys. Practiced might be a better word for it. Chris Henderson, my old lab partner, was the closest thing I ever had to a boyfriend, and even that was more about science than anything else.
I used to tell my dad I was off to study with Chris, which wasn’t a lie. We studied everything. Including making out.
We’d analyze each kiss, break down the specifics like it was part of a biology project. Which muscles were involved, the mechanics of head tilts, even the chemical reactions happening in our brains. We tried each step together like we were dissecting a frog in a high school lab.
It was weird. Too clinical.
There’s definitely science involved in attraction—hormones, neurotransmitters, pheromones—but what’s happening to me now? This isn’t clinical. This is chaotic, consuming, uncontrollable. Every time Ranger so much as glances my way, my stomach flips like I’m on the edge of a roller coaster. Butterflies? Oh, no. This is a swarm.