Free Hansel 4 by Ella James Page A

something,” I say.
                  His hand flips over, so his fingers can dance under my palm. “I guess it depends on the things.”
                  I stroke his thumb. “What do you mean?”
                  “If the things are good, it would be more fulfilling to think of it as fate,” he supplies.
                  “And if they’re bad?”
                  “Then accidents.”
                  I rub my face against his hand and kiss his fingers. “I think I’m going to have to go with fate.”
    He steps out of the elevator a couple of seconds later. He looks breathtaking in slacks and a pale pink dress shirt, with the sleeves rolled up, exposing his muscled forearms. His dark hair is neatly groomed, his hazel eyes alight. Balanced on the palm of one hand is a pink, square, cardboard box. His eyes flit to the cake box as he strides into the lobby. When he lifts them up again, his gaze smacks into me.
    I watch the color drain from his face and see his lips part in surprise. He shuts his mouth. Stops walking. He looks quizzically around the room, as if he’d like an explanation of how I got here.
    I smile a little—terrified, self-conscious—and start toward him.
    Our gazes break apart. His rolls up and down my body; mine devours him. Sharp pain wedges in behind my breastbone—like I’m missing him in real-time, already longing for…well, everything about this man. I’m addicted to the way he takes up space on planet earth.
    His eyes rush over me as I move into touching distance. His face bends into something softer: a kind of precursor to a smile.
    He reaches out to touch my shoulder. “Leah.”
    I smile, small and nervous. “Hi, Luke.”
    “Hi.” His voice is low, discreet, but his eyes are eating me alive. I stand, frozen, like a child licked by a dog’s tongue. I can only shiver in response to him. Maybe I stand there longer than I think, because a moment later, his free hand clasps my shoulder gently.
    “Come here,” he says.
    He leads me over to a small, brown couch, and we sit. I can only look at him. At his tanned face, sporting a sexy five o’clock shadow. At his warm, brown-green eyes. At his broad shoulders, and finally, at his hands. God, those hands. Even now, with their fresh scars—and the memory of the awful night he put them there—his lithe, strong hands do something to me.
    I reach down and touch the left one, resting on his knee. When he turns his hand over and curls his fingers around mine, I grin.
    “It’s okay!”
    He smiles a little. “Yeah.”
    “Great. That’s so great. I thought of you.” What does that mean? I rub my forehead. “Good thoughts. Healing ones, and stuff.”
    His mouth quirks up on one side, almost imperceptible, except I’m watching so closely. “Thank you.”
    I suck in a deep breath, becoming slowly more aware that while I’m tripping all over myself, he seems unusually calm. His eyes are clear; there’s something different in his face: a kind of peace.
    Dear God, he’s handsome. I look him up and down and promptly want to die.
    “What’s in there?” I nod at the pink box in his hand.
    “This?” He flips the top open, and I spy food porn.
    “Donuts. Ahhhh.”
    He nods. “Voodoo Donuts. Fucking good.” He nods at the colorful assortment. “Would you like one?”
    “You don’t have to.” I feel shy, for some reason. Nervous about reaching out and picking up one of the donuts. “They’re for you, so you should eat them.”
    “They’re not for me.” He lifts out one that’s covered in powdered sugar. “Try this.”
    I take it from him, and I can’t help noticing his face is tight and troubled now. I hold my hands up. “It’s okay. I’m fine. I don’t want to eat your donuts. I’m not even hungry.”
    I’m on my feet the next second, gripping my duffel bag and reeling at the rush of heat that’s burning through my cheeks. “It was nice to see you,” I