Page 10 of Rising Heat

I shut it down immediately.

I’m here for a tour. I’m not projecting an entire future onto someone else’s hardwood floors.

Footsteps interrupt my spiral. Fast, light, someone taking the stairs two at a time before appearing at the turn of the landing.

And—

Oh.

He’s tall, at least six feet, with the kind of build that makes you think he played football or lacrosse, or maybe just somebody who’s been athletic his entire life and never saw a reason to stop. Naturally, irritatingly well-put-together in the way of a man who probably doesn’t think about it much.

Dark jeans, worn boots, a heather gray henley pushed to the forearms, which is where my attention dives immediately and, for the record that no one asked for, stays without my permission. His forearms are corded and veined in that specific way that makes my brain briefly drop whatever it was trying to calculate and⁠—

Down girl.

He has the kind of forearms that belong on someone who knows what they’re doing with their hands. I’ve known him for zero seconds and my body has already filed that observation under urgent and flagged it for immediate follow-up.

I tell my body to file it somewhere other than my lower belly. It declines.

His light brown hair looks like he ran a hand through it on the way downstairs and didn’t bother with the rest. Green eyes. Sharp cheekbones. And a grin that arrives too quickly and feels too genuine—the smile of someone who is either the most sincere person in any given room or fully aware of exactly what that smile does to people and uses it to his advantage.

Either way it has me clutching my purse strap like a Victorian widow. Lucky me.

He slows on the last step and takes me in. Subtle enough that I notice, not so much that I can object to it. He smiles.

“Well,” he says, voice easy and teasing now that he’s closer, “you’re either my ten o’clock or you’re here to rob us.”

“I’m here for the apartment tour,” I manage.

His mouth kicks up at one corner.

“That’s less exciting than armed robbery, but probably easier to explain to the neighbors.”

He steps off the stairs and holds out a hand.

“Tyler.”

Long fingers. Callused palm. His grip is warm and easy and the moment our hands connect, a sharp little burst of warmth zips up my arm so unexpectedly it nearly makes me lose track of whatever I was about to say.

Somewhere in the middle of our hands connecting, I catch the scent of clean soap and something fresh and masculine I can’t quite put my finger on. Which feels genuinely unfair for a man I’ve known for all of thirty seconds.

Our hands separate and I immediately become aware of how long it’s been since a touch felt uncomplicated. That’s unfortunate information to learn about yourself before ten in the morning.

“Darcy.”

He repeats it slowly, like he’s testing how it feels on his tongue.

“Darcy.”

My pulse decides to make itself known then. Absolutely not.

I glance around the foyer, trying to reset.

“This place is…”

Tyler watches me.

“Better than the pictures?”