Page 7 of Bronson

The excuses sound weaker than usual.

I head to the door. Alice is not looking surprised to see me leaving so soon—she probably assumes I’ve been eyeing the impossible price tags—and she calls out a kind farewell. I raise my hand in a wave of thanks.

The fingers of my other hand curl around the handle of the door.

“Not so fast.”

The heavy words come growling out of thin air.

Bile rises in my throat. My heart drops. A cold sweat breaks out over my forehead.

Do I run? My fingers tighten around the handle.

“Don’t even think about it.”

The voice is shockingly commanding.

I have to obey it.

My hand drops to my side. Nausea pools in my stomach. I turn to face the owner of the voice.

My heart stops beating in my chest.

A huge man stands before me. And he’s livid.

Dark hair meticulously combed over dark brows. The broad shoulders filling out the gray suit jacket, tapering down to a single button done over a slender waist. There’s got to be rippling muscles beneath that starched white shirt. Bronzed skin that looks like it just left a Greek Island, gleaming against that white collar. His arms are crossed over his chest. His hands are huge.

And those eyes. Those flashing black eyes. He takes another step toward me and my stomach drops to my feet. He’s inches from my face and I can see they aren’t black at all. They’re an entrancing deep brown.

He’s The Looker.

“It’s… you,” I stammer.

His already creased brow further narrows. “Excuse me?” he demands. “I don’t have time for games.”

He has no idea who I am.

And I barely know him.

For the past month or so, he would come up to Jane’s floor every Sunday afternoon, visit a newer patient of hers, stay for hours, then leave just as the sun was setting. He was always courteous, but not friendly. He had an energy about him that made me keep a distance. The others didn’t sense it—they were too taken with his striking features.

He looked to be in his early thirties, and the older nurses couldn’t let a visit go by without elbowing my shy friend, saying, “Jane, you have to find out who that man is. He’s such a looker.”

Hence, he’d been given the nickname, The Looker, by the henhouse.

He repeats himself. “I said, I don’t have time for games, little girl. Now tell me what the hell you’re up to.” His fingers curl around his bicep, clutching as if he’s stopping himself from doing something he’d regret.

A shiver runs through me.

“Nothing,” I manage to murmur. “And I was just leaving.” I reach for the door once more.

The gaze he gives me stops me. My reaching hand hangs awkwardly in midair.

In a sudden movement, his arms uncross. He’s reaching toward me and I cringe. His right hand wraps around the back of my upper left arm. His strong fingers dig into my flesh. The pressure from his grip is uncomfortable, bordering on painful. Panic pulses through my body.

“Come with me,” he growls.

My feet move on their own, my mind blank, as he escorts me to the back of the store. I shoot a ‘help me’ glance at Alice, but she’s busy with a client who’s looking at the high-end stuff. The commission from one of those pieces probably pays her rent. She doesn’t even notice me.