I flinched, my hands flew up, and gasped with startled fright at the owner of the voice. “Sorry.” Greg hovered at the entrance to the suite looking so handsome he made my chest hurt; I hadn’t heard him come in. I released a calming breath, my heart still thundering, and laughed at myself. “No, no. It’s okay. I didn’t hear you come in.” I saw he was wearing dark blue jeans that hung very nicely on his narrow hips and a long-sleeved grey thermal that made his eyes look almost black. Over his shoulder was a backpack. His dark hair was wet like he’d just showered, longish, yet achieved the effect of careless and wayward spikes. It needed a trim. I liked it. “You’re a gymnast,” he repeated, edging further into the room. I studied him, looking for some trace of a hangover or sign in his features that he was the same person who’d shown up the night before, knocking on my door and admitting he wanted to be my first everything.
