Free You and Me by Veronica Larsen Page A

And seeing as he's staring right back, I figure he approves. His grin matches my own as he slows to a walk, and I desperately hope he isn't going to stop in front of me. But of course, that's exactly what he does. Staring is one thing, but I'm not mentally prepared to engage another human being in conversation. I need to wind up for stuff like this. I need at least a five-minute warning.  
    He looks down at me with smiling eyes the shade of some Caribbean seascape, tilts his head and says, "Morning," in a breathy voice, before running his hand through his wet hair to comb it back. His chest still heaves from exertion and rain falls over him but he doesn't seem to care. And me? I'm still staring.  
    "Can I get through? You're blocking the door," he says.
    I jump to my feet.  
    He moves under the awning, still dripping wet, and pulls a keycard from his pocket. I nearly sigh in relief at the sight of it. He watches me, seeming amused by my desperation, but I can't even begin to play it cool.  
    "Oh, thank God. You can let me in."
    "Now, wait a minute," he taunts, keycard hovering just inches from the security pad and its blinking red light. "Can I get a name, at least?"
    "My name's Samantha."  
    "I'm Jackson."
    Another round of thunder shakes the sky and the downpour increases.
    "Hey, Jackson, can we talk more inside? We're about to get swept away by the biblical flood."  
    His lips quirk up as he swipes his keycard through the reader, coming so close his arm brushes against my chest. There's not much room to maneuver with my bag partially blocking the door.
    Wordlessly, he holds the door open for me, and when I grab the handle of my suitcase, his hand comes over mine. The unexpected touch sends a thrill through me.
    "Let me get this for you."  
    I almost resist, almost insist I can carry it on my own. But when an insanely hot guy offers to put his rather delicious biceps to use for your convenience, it would be ridiculous to decline.
    "Thanks," I say, releasing the handle. He leads the way through the lobby and to the elevator. The doors open before we reach them and an older man steps out, walking past us without even a sideways glance.
    Stepping inside, I become self-conscious of my appearance. Is makeup running down my face? Is that why there's a slight smile to his lips?  
    He presses the button for the eighth floor and glances back in silent question.
    "I'm also on eight."
    I say this coolly, but internally? I do an victory dance. A lewd one where I dry hump the air and spank an imaginary ass. Hopefully I remain outwardly unaffected. I run a finger under each eye as if to wipe away any residual moisture, but really, I want to erase the possible raccoon eyes my mascara might have left behind. My hand is clean when I pull it away, which helps my confidence.
    "Who are you visiting, Samantha?"
    He says my name like he's testing out how it tastes in his mouth, savoring each syllable. I make the mistake of glancing down to the front of his shorts, which are just as soaked as his shirt and clinging to him just the same way. Holy crap. There's definitely something to hang on to inside those shorts.
    I clear my throat and give him a polite smile.
    "No one. I live here," I say, and when his gaze moves down to my lips, I lose my nerve and start to ramble. "I'm moving in with my sister, who isn't answering her phone. It's so like her, you know? Never really paying attention to what's going on around her." Stop talking. "And I'm a little annoyed because I'm tired. I was up all night. All night." I stop, then rush to add, "I'm not a stripper."
    I shift my footing, aware I've revealed way too much information.  
    He stares at me with those cool blue eyes that send a refreshing shiver over my body, then chuckles, filling what would've otherwise been an awkward silence.  
    "Do you really live here?" I ask, trying to regain my cool. "Or did you pickpocket someone for their keycard on your morning jog?"
    "Hang on. You're the