My name is Ella, and right now, I am stuck.
Not metaphorically. Literally, physically stuck. My left arm is shoved all the way under my ex boyfriend's bedroom door, my cheek is pressed into the ugly carpet, and my backside is probably on full display for the entire universe to see.
Let me describe myself, since I am in such a graceful position.
I am not a delicate woman. I am five foot nine, and I have the kind of curves that make buying a simple dress an adventure. My mom calls it a hearty build. My best friend Maya calls it the kind of body that starts wars. Right now, it is the kind of body that is thoroughly wedged into this hallway floor.
My skin is warm, the color of honey, and usually pretty smooth. At this moment, the carpet is grinding a red checkerboard pattern into one side of my face. My hair is a long, thick mess of dark brown currently trying to escape the knot on top of my head. A few strands are stuck to my lipgloss.
I am wearing my stealing back my life outfit: old, soft black jeans that are tight across my hips and rear, and a thin, light blue tank top. No bra. This was a tactical error I am deeply aware of as the cold floor presses against me.
My heart is hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat.
I just hooked my grandmother's locket chain with my fingertip. I was so close. Then I heard the front door open.
Boots.
Heavy, steady footsteps. They stop right next to my head.
I stop breathing. The world shrinks to the scuffed leather of a work boot an inch from my nose. It smells like wood and outside.
A heavy toolbox hits the floor with a sound that shakes through me.
Slowly, painfully, I tilt my head back.
My eyes travel up long legs in worn jeans. A leather tool belt. A plain grey t shirt stretched over a chest that is wide and solid. The arms that hang at his sides are thick, roped with muscle and dusted with dark hair.
Then I see his face.
It is him. The roommate. I have only seen him once, in passing. Ben said his name was Jax. He is a carpenter.
His jaw is strong, covered in a shadow of dark stubble. His mouth is a firm line. But his eyes… they are a grey so deep it is almost blue, like the ocean under storm clouds. They are not wide with shock. They are just… taking me in. All of me. Stuck on the floor.
He looks from my face, down the exposed line of my back where my tank top has ridden up, to the denim stretched tight over my rear, and back to my eyes.
A single, hot wave of pure humiliation washes over me.
He does not say a word. He just cocks his head to the side, one dark eyebrow lifting slightly.
Finally, he speaks. His voice is a low, quiet rumble that seems to fill the silent hallway.
"Need a hand?"
I could not speak if my life depended on it. I just made a small, pathetic sound in the back of my throat.
He moved then. with a calm, deliberate purpose. He knelt down. The space, which felt huge a second ago, suddenly shrank to the size of a closet. His knees touched the carpet, one brushing against the curve of my hip. A jolt went through me at the contact.
He was so much bigger up close. His shoulders blocked the light from the ceiling fixture. And his scent… it wrapped around me. Not cologne. It was sun on dry wood, clean sweat, and the simple, clean smell of a man who worked with his hands.
"You are stuck," he stated, his eyes tracing the line of my arm vanishing under the door.
"The locket," I managed to whisper, my voice rusty. "It is mine. It fell… I was just…"
"Getting it back," he finished for me. His gaze was intense, unblinking. "Hold still."
Before I could process his command, his hands were on me.
One big, warm hand settled on the small of my bare back. His palm was rough with callouses, a shocking, searing heat against my cool skin. The touch was so intimate, so claiming, it stole the air from my lungs. His other hand closed around my bicep, his fingers overlapping easily as they encircled my arm.
"When I pull, you slide back. Easy."
He pulled, gently but with undeniable strength. My arm slid free from under the door, the locket chain clutched tight in my dusty fist. The relief was instant, followed by a wave of dizziness.
But he did not let go. His hand remained on my back, a brand. His other hand slid from my arm to my shoulder, steadying me. He did not help me up. He kept me right there, on the floor, with him kneeling over me.
His face was inches from mine. I could see the faint scar through his eyebrow, the dark flecks in his stormy eyes, the way his lips parted just slightly as he looked at me.
"I am Jax," he said, as if we were meeting at a café.
"Ella," I breathed out.
"Ella." He said my name slowly, like he was testing the weight of it. His thumb, resting on my back, began to move. A slow, absent circle on the dip of my spine. The simple stroke sent electric currents shooting straight to my core. My body clenched deep inside.
I should move. I should get up, thank him awkwardly, and run. But my limbs were liquid. My blood was humming, a low, insistent beat that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the massive, magnetic man caging me in.
"You are Ben's ex," he said.
"I was just leaving."
A ghost of a smile touched his mouth. It was there and gone, but it changed his whole face. It made him look dangerous and handsome in a way that made my stomach flip. "No," he murmured, his voice dropping even lower, into a register I felt in my bones. "I do not think you are."
His gaze dropped to my mouth. Lingered. The air in the hallway became thick, charged, impossible to breathe. Every instinct screamed at me to close the distance, to see if his lips were as soft as they looked.
His hand on my back pressed down slightly, arching my spine toward him. A silent question.
The front door rattled.
A key in the lock.
Jax's eyes snapped up, meeting mine. The spell shattered.
"Shit," I hissed, scrambling. His hands fell away, and I lurched to my feet, my legs wobbly. I stumbled back, pressing myself against the wall just as the door swung open.
Ben walked in, his suit jacket slung over his shoulder. He stopped, his eyes flicking from Jax, still kneeling on the floor, to me, flushed and disheveled against the wall.
"What is going on?" Ben's voice was sharp.
Jax stood up in one smooth motion. He did not look at Ben. He looked at me, his grey eyes holding mine for one last second. Then he turned, his face going neutral. He picked up his toolbox.
"Ella got her arm stuck under your door," Jax said, his voice flat. "I helped her out."
Ben looked at me. "What were you doing here?"
I held up the locket. "This. You said you mailed it. You did not."
Ben frowned. "You broke in?"
"My key broke," I said, pointing. "I got what I came for. I am leaving."
I pushed off the wall. I could not look at Jax. I walked straight for the door.
As I passed Ben, I heard Jax speak. His voice was so low only I could hear it.
"Run."
I did not look back. I fled into the hallway, down the stairs, and out into the cool evening air.
But his touch was still on my skin. His scent was in my nose. That one word was in my head.
Run.