Backhand (EBOOK)

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The light was perfect . . . until it wasn’t.
Sara glared up at the large, brick-wall style shadow that was marring her perfect view.
Did the person not understand just how freaking long she’d had to wait for the moon to peek out from behind the fog, to gild the rotunda at the Palace of Fine Arts and reflect off the water in perfect symmetry?
She clutched her pencil—the same one that had been sketching furiously just seconds before—and leaned to the left, trying to get one more glimpse of the scene, to commit it to memory before it was . . .
Gone.
Son of a—
“I know you.”
The male voice was chocolate ice cream with hot fudge and marshmallow fluff, warm sand sifting between her toes, the perfect ending to a dramatic rom-com all rolled into one.
The hairs on her nape rose, and she shivered, wanting to snuggle into the sound, to pull it close like a cuddly sweatshirt—
At least until alarm flared to life, and she remembered she was totally alone.
Suddenly, skulking around the Marina District in the middle of the night seemed like a horrible idea.
Her sketchbook fell to the ground, the book light that had been clipped to the top making a sickening crack as it hit the concrete and went out. She blinked, trying to get her eyes to adjust, but darkness descended as fog swallowed the moon back up. She gripped her pencil like a knife and held it threateningly . . . or at least as threateningly as a pencil can be held. “Back off.”
Her attempt at a growl, a warning.
And not a very scary one at that, if the man’s reaction was anything to go by.
A soft chuckle was the only thing she heard before the pencil was plucked from her fingers. Sara opened her mouth to scream, but instead of jumping her like she’d half-expected, he sank into a crouch and handed the pencil back.
“You shouldn’t be out here by yourself,” he said.
“Noted,” Sara muttered and shoved it into her pocket before bending to grab her sketchbook and light. “And you shouldn’t ruin a perfect setup.”
A flash of white teeth penetrated the darkness. “Noted,” he said and put a palm to his knee, as though to push himself to standing.
Her eyes dropped. They’d adjusted enough to see his hands. And those hands were gorgeous. Long, lean fingers and neatly trimmed nails with enough character to make them interesting. She flipped to a blank page of her sketchbook, flicked the switch on the light, and spread his fingers on her thigh. The contrast, the shadows, the scars on his knuckles. His hand was the perfect juxtaposition and she had to get it on paper.
“Umm—”
“Shh.” Her pencil flew across the page. It made a soft scratching sound as she worked, outlining, shading in the image, blending and building until his hand was captured on paper.
She didn’t know how long she worked, just that when she’d finished, her neck ached and her legs were stiff and . . . a strange man had his hand on her thigh.
Her breath caught, and she looked up.
He was beautiful. Oddly familiar with his face half-illuminated in the lamplight, eyes as dark as ink, several days of scruff on his cheeks and chin, nose just slightly askew, as though it had been broken a time or two. And was that a bruise just above his right cheekbone?
Sara didn’t have a chance to look closer.
His fingers flexed on her thigh, and every one of her thoughts beelined straight for that particular body part. She was in jeans, so it wasn’t like he was touching her skin. But he might as well have been.
The warmth of his palm seeped through the thick material, made her quads flex. He was huge, his hand spanning the width of her thigh easily, and just the kind of man she liked. Big and strong, tall and wide-shouldered. Here was a man who could do all the clichés: protect her, shelter her, weather proverbial storms.
“You done?” The soft question held just the slightest hint of amusement, except there was a bite to the humor, as though that piece of his personality hadn’t been used in a good long time.
No. She wanted to sketch his face, flip his hand over and draw the lines of his palm, but she’d submitted enough to her artist-crazy for the evening. And her hand was sore.
“Yeah,” she said, ignoring the slightly breathless quality to her voice and standing.
Sketchbook into her pack, light off and into her pocket, stiff and aching hip, ribs, and shoulder from sitting too long on the cold, hard ground. Yup. All was as it should be.
The man stood as well. His size on the ground hadn’t done his real breadth justice.
He. Was. Ginormous.
Okay, so she was petite, barely five feet three, but this man towered over her.
Yet she didn’t feel scared. Embarrassed, maybe, that she’d hijacked his hand for—she pulled out her phone and glanced at the time—an hour and a half. But definitely not scared.
And she’d focus on that at a later time. For now, she should probably make an escape before she looked even more crazy cakes.
“Sorry I messed up your sketch,” he rumbled.
She nibbled on the side of her mouth, biting back a smile. “Sorry I stole your hand for so long.”
He shrugged. “My mom’s an artist. I get it.”
Well, there went her battle with the smile. Her lips twitched and her teeth came out of hiding. If there was one thing that Sara had, it was her smile. It had been her trademark in her competition days.
Which were long over.
Her mouth flattened out, the grin slipping away. Time to go, time to forget, to move on, to rebuild. “Thanks,” she said and extended a hand.
Then winced and dropped it when her ribs cried out in protest.
“You okay?” he asked, head tilting, eyes studying her.
“Fine.” And out popped her new smile. The fake one. Careful of her aching side, she shrugged into her backpack. “I’ve got to go.” She turned, ponytail flapping through the hair to land on her opposite shoulder.
“That—” He touched her arm. “Wait. I know I know you.”
She froze. That was the second time he’d said that, and now they were getting into dangerous territory. Recognition meant . . . no. She couldn’t.
There had been a time when everyone had known her. Her face on Wheaties boxes, her smile promoting toothpaste and credit cards alike.
That wasn’t her life any longer.
“Thanks again. Bye.” She started to hurry away.
“Wait.” A hand dropped on to her shoulder, thwarting her escape, and she hissed in pain.
“Sorry,” he said, but he didn’t release her. Instead, he shifted his grip from her aching shoulder down to her elbow and when she didn’t protest, he exerted gentle pressure until Sara was facing him again. “It’s just that know I know you.”
No. This wasn’t happening.
“You’re Sara Jetty.”
Her body went tense.
Oh God. This was so happening.
“It’s me.” He touched his chest like she didn’t know he was talking about himself, and even as she was finally recognizing the color of his eyes, the familiar curve of his lips and line of his jaw, he said the worst thing ever, “Mike Stewart.”
Oh shit.