When I get inside the new-looking gender neutral restroom, dimly lit with a strobe light in the ceiling, the stall door swings open, revealing a man leaning against the inside of the stall. On another day his toned back and thick shoulders would have turned up my temperature, but the dude’s exquisite body has been through the ringer. His back is marred by long, straight welts, covering him vertically and horizontally and every way in between. The streaks look painfully swollen, and up by his shoulder, there’s an open gash that’s oozing.
I try to catch my breath, but the twisty feeling in my stomach won’t let up. The man turns his head slightly, and I gasp. Hunter.
Heat moves through me, a strong sensation that’s at war with the concern I feel over the sad state of his back.
I hesitate a second, wondering if Priscilla put those marks on him. What must be wrong with him if he’s in that kind of relationship? I remember the distracted look in his eyes back at the bar, the awkward way he looked behind his glass when I asked him why he cared, and wonder what’s wrong with me for even having these thoughts.
Then I remember touching his face inside my mother’s house, and I tell myself that this is something. This spark I feel when I’m around him—it’s worth something. I picture him leaning over Priscilla, and I’m right back where I started.
When am I going to stop spinning fantasies around this…stranger? He’s a rich-as-sin poker player who lives half his life in Vegas and is in a very weird relationship. Despite our prior interactions and my outsized attraction to him, there’s nothing here.
You need to go. Just let him be.
I reach for the handle on the big wooden door that leads from the bathroom into the hallway and hear footsteps on the marble floor behind me. My mind spins, projecting its wishes into reality.
As I pull the door open, I can practically feel the rush of air from Hunter’s body moving after mine. His strong hand grips my bicep and his low, rough voice says, “Libby.”
He turns me to face him, then pushes the door shut behind me. I stare at his face with suspended disbelief. The wide green eyes. The sweat-slick skin. His hair is wild, like someone’s fingers have been in it, and his mouth is grim.
I tug my arm away from him, or try to. His grip tightens as his gaze holds onto mine. “Were you leaving?” His voice sounds ragged, like he’s out of breath.
“Yes. I...need to go.”
“Because of me?”
I can’t seem to find my voice. I push my palm against the door, which I’ve now backed myself against. I can’t take my eyes off Hunter. Being this close to him is like stepping onto the surface of a star. I feel like I’m melting. My mind speeds up in time with my racing pulse, and all of a sudden I have to know. “What happened to your back?”
His eyes are still on mine, and I can’t breathe as they flicker to my lips.
“I hurt it.” The words are warm and gruff, like he’s telling me a secret but he’s not sure that he wants to. The simple answer surprises me. So does the bare look in his eyes.
“It looks awful,” I say bluntly.
He shrugs, but his nonchalance is ruined by a wince. I look at his back through the reflection in the mirror. There are a lot of welts, and they all seem to be about the same size. “Did Priscilla do that?”
“You think I’d let a woman do this to me?” He looks so stern and masculine, I feel stupid for asking. Not my business.
But there’s something in his eyes. Something hard, almost a challenge, and I can’t help feeling like I’m being warned away.
I suck in a breath, struggling to speak as I try to pull the answer from his eyes. “Did you?” I manage.
He’s quiet again, giving me a chance to examine his face. There’s a nasty bruise on his jaw. He must have shaved this morning because he’s already looking scruffy. “This was a choice,” he finally says.
A choice? My stomach rolls. “Are you saying that…you did it to yourself?”
He reaches for me, grabs my hand, and as he pulls me closer, I know I’m in trouble.
“I’m not saying anything.” His free hand comes behind my head, his fingers tangling gently in my hair as I take in his handsome, bruised face. “You’re the one talking.”
“About you,” I whisper.
“About me.”
“I think you need to be more careful,” I say, throwing what he said at the bar back at him. “I don’t want to see you hurt.”
His eyes flare, and for a second I think he’s going to walk out, but then he groans and hauls me up against him.