Butterfly in Frost

by Sylvia Day

  “Are you seeing this?” Roxy asks, apparently unable to look away, either.

  Our trances are broken by frantic barking. Bella and Minnie have spotted the stranger running full tilt in our direction.

  “Hey,” Roxy corrects Bella, pulling her closer. “Knock it off.”

  But I’m still too absorbed to react in time. Minnie decides to run for it. Her leash slides out of my hand as if I didn’t have a grip on it at all. She’s gone before I can catch her, her stubby legs moving so fast that they’re a blur, on a collision course with him.

  “Damn it.” Now I’m running toward him, too, and he sees me. He shows no surprise when he’s pulled from his thoughts to find two gawking women and their out-of-control dogs. The hard line of his mouth tightens as he shifts from looking distracted to laser focused. And he doesn’t slow down.

  Primitive instinct spurs me to evade, escape. He’s like a raging cyclone hurtling toward me, and self-preservation demands retreat.

  “Minnie!” I shout, swiping a hand down toward the leash while running. I miss the target. “Damn it.”

  “Minnie Bear!” Roxy snaps, and the tiny dog instantly skids to a halt and pivots to run back to her human.

  I’m nearly as agile. I shift direction to dodge the man who’s charging at me, crossing to the other side of the street.

  “Teagan!”

  Roxy’s panicked shout of my name turns my head . . . just in time to see the Chrysler 300 barreling straight for me.

  Adrenaline spurts, and I surge forward, the sound of squealing brakes raising the hairs on the back of my neck. I’m hit from behind with enough force to propel me off the road and onto my neighbor’s lawn.

  Winded and still terrified, it takes a few seconds to realize I’m okay.

  And that the hot, hard, sweaty hunk of a man I’d been running from is on top of me.

  2

  “Are you fucking crazy?” he snaps, glaring down at me.

  I recognize that he’s beyond angry. Also that he’s even more gorgeous up close.

  His eyes are beautiful hazel, emerald green with bursts of gold radiating from the center. He’s got ridiculously thick eyelashes, so full and dark that it’s almost as if he’s wearing eyeliner. His brows, too, are strong and bold, arching over those luminous, furious eyes. He’s got cheekbones I’d kill for and lips that are pursed into a tight, stern line.

  He shakes me. “Are you listening to me?”

  I am, yes, analyzing the husky gruffness in his voice. Jazz bar, I think. His speech is flavored with whiskey and tobacco.

  He’s straddling me, dripping sweat on me, and I feel like I’m attached to a defibrillator, with sharp painful currents jolting my entire body to life. My chest is heaving with the harshness of my breathing, and every breath carries his scent. Citrus and pheromones and hardworking, healthy male.

  “Teagan,” he growls, pulling me up by my shoulders. “Say something.”

  Biceps—holy shit is the man built—and pectorals flexing under inked skin and rows of abs.

  “Teagan.” Roxy stands at his shoulder, fighting to hold Minnie and Bella back. The girls may be a different species, but they want to crawl all over him, too. “What the hell were you thinking?”

  He lowers me back to the ground and stands. “She wasn’t.”

  Looking up at him reminds me of how tall he is. He thrusts a hand at me, and I reach for it without thinking, feeling it a moment later when his skin touches mine and a spark of awareness hits me harder than his tackle. He hauls me up, then yanks his hand away, rubbing it absently across his chest.

  “I’ve got better things to do than watch you get splattered all over the road,” he tells me, his tone glacial.

  There’s nothing soft about this man. Not his body or personality. Not his face, which is far too masculine to be beautiful but somehow is anyway. And certainly not his incredible magnetism. That surprises me most of all, the sexual tension arcing between us.

  I rub my palm, too, still feeling a residual tingling. “Well then, thanks for the save.”

  “Yes, thank you,” Roxy says, her hand over her heart. “Scared me half to death.”

  His gaze bores into me. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.” Except my hair’s in a messy braid, my face is bare, and my eyebrows need taming. All of which makes me self-conscious. I wish I looked more pulled together. Appearance can be armor, too.

  That’s what his tattoos bring to mind, I grasp—warrior’s armor. His ink drapes over his broad shoulders to cover his pectorals and shoulder blades before running down those impressive arms.

  Shoving one hand through his hair, he turns his back to me and walks away.

  “Hey, I’m Roxanne, by the way.” And she’s using the tone of voice that lets him know he’s treading a fine line.

  He pivots back around with his hand extended, once again displaying that powerful grace. His temper runs hot, but everything else about him is as cool as ice. “Garrett.”

  “Nice to meet you, Garrett.” She shakes his hand, then sweeps her arm toward me. “And this reckless lady is Dr. Teagan Ransom.”

  Garrett’s eyes narrow on her; then he shoots a disbelieving look at me. When he turns his attention back to Roxy, it’s a decisive dismissal. “Keep your friend out of the street, Roxanne.”

  Then he’s off and running, disappearing over the edge of the road as quickly as he’d appeared.

  Roxy and I both stare after him. Bella and Minnie run to the end of their leashes, barking.

  “Well,” Roxy says as we step off the lawn. “That was more excitement than I was looking for this early in the day.”

  Shaky and disconcerted, I debate bowing out of the walk and going home.

  She touches my elbow. “Are you really okay?”

  “Yes.” I keep walking, sticking with my routine. One step in front of the other. My heart is still beating too fast, adrenaline still high in my blood. Fight-or-flight warring with mental shock.

  It’s been a long time since anything reminded me that I’m a woman.

  Despite the lengthy walk and a leisurely lunch, I’m still out of sorts as I stroll down the driveway to my house. I’ve been trying to compose myself all morning, and I’m irritated that I can’t.

  After all this time, I realize I haven’t come as far as I believed.

  As I skirt the detached garage and head up the walkway to my front door, I can’t help but glance over at the sleek black Range Rover parked at a haphazard angle in the neighboring driveway.

  The hard lump of ice inside me still hurts.

  I’m angry. I’d had each day planned out going forward. A new city, new friends, new routines. Half a year’s worth of therapy and reconditioning, for what? My neighbors move, and I feel as if I’ve been deceived. As if the new life I’ve built came with a guarantee that nothing would change.

  With conscious determination, I exhale and try to push out my anxiety with it. I pull my keys from my pocket as I approach my front door and slide one into the dead bolt. When the lock opens, I use the same key in the original midcentury doorknob that sits in the dead center of the door. Once inside, I relock them both, toss my keys on the end table, and disarm the alarm before the grace period runs out and the earsplitting siren goes off.

  Going through each step in the same established order settles me some. But it’s being back in my home, alone, that provides the greatest relief. I gaze longingly at the couch, so exhausted I just want to curl into the cushions and sleep forever. I know what it means to feel this tired; I know what’s coming. That doesn’t mean I can stop it.

  Instead, I look ahead to the wall of windows overlooking the Sound. The left side of the butterfly roof wings up and over the double-sided fireplace and dining room, with clerestory windows following the graceful rise so nothing blocks the majestic view. Just beyond the verdant hump of Maury and Vashon Islands, the sprawling Olympic Mountains lie west and run south. Some days, fog conceals the range so thoroughly, it disappears.
But on cloudless days like today, I can see the snowcapped peaks stretching down the coast.

  I soak it in, letting the familiarity calm me. I stand in the center of my living room long enough to watch another massive cargo ship lumber by on the way to Tacoma. Sunlight glitters off the gently moving water, and crab-trap buoys bob to the rhythm.

  It’s quiet here, so very different from the frenetic pace and noise of New York. I could hardly hear myself think there, with life beating at me from all sides, a very busy medical practice, and an ever-present camera crew. Here, I can be alone with my thoughts, with no one to judge me or pity me or expect me to “get over it.”

  When my phone vibrates in my pocket, I don’t even jump. My mind has escaped into a solitary space that shields me from the endless internal screaming that once threatened to drive me insane.

  When I see Roxy’s face on the screen, I accept the video call. “Hey.”

  “Hey back.” She’s animated, her eyes bright. “You near your tablet?”

  “I can be.” I walk over to where it sits on a charging cradle, grateful for the distraction.

  “I’m texting you a link. Don’t click through on your phone. You need a bigger screen.”

  The notification pops up, and I go through the motions to open the page she’s sent me. I’m only mildly surprised when Garrett’s eyes are the first things I see. This is Roxy, after all, and she’s a bloodhound on the scent when it comes to gossip fodder.

  “You move quickly,” I murmur, scrolling a little so that his whole face comes into view.

  Whew. The man is a heartthrob, no doubt about it. As jaded as I am, I can still be fazed by that level of tantalizingly assured masculinity.

  “Well, it’s not altogether hard to find someone who’s been covered by the press.” Her voice is filled with excitement. “And while I’ll have to admit that Mike was right about him being an artist—I placed my bet on director—we were kinda both right, because Garrett Frost is both a photographer and painter. He takes these amazing black-and-white photos, then translates them into full-color abstract paintings. There’s a slideshow in the article comparing the inspiration photos with the final artwork. Some of it’s really mind-blowing.”

  The Frost Phenomenon Heats Up Art World Elite. That’s the headline of a lengthy article featuring several photos of the artist himself with various celebrities I’m familiar with and others I’m not. One picture in particular captivates me, because he’s smiling. As sexy as the man is regardless, he’s even more so when lit by humor. Those beautiful eyes glow. Charming grooves etch his cheeks. And his lips are full and firm, a sensualist’s delight.

  “I can’t believe you’re not freaking out!” Roxy scolds. “Argh. Just because you meet famous people all the time. You’re immune.”

  “I do not meet famous people all the time.” And I sure as hell am not immune. Something low and deep inside me quivers when I look at his face.

  “Hello? You’re famous, Doctor Midtown,” she counters. “And you were married to Kyler Jordan!”

  I wince at the dual mention of the reality series that made me a known personality and my marriage to an actor still playing the superhero role that turned him into a global commodity. Many saw my story as a fairy tale and assumed I lived a charmed life. For a while, even I believed that.

  Then the perfect picture shattered into a million sharp, painful shards.

  “Anyway,” Roxy goes on, “Garrett Frost looks like trouble, doesn’t he? He’s got bad boy written all over him.”

  He does. The devil-may-care vibe comes through in the confidence of his posture and the way he dresses, which is tasteful and expensive but also eclectic enough to say that fitting in isn’t something he cares to worry about. “He’s gorgeous and talented. I expect he doesn’t hear the word no very often.”

  “Who would say it? Look at all the pictures of him with supermodels. Anyway, I may come over—”

  The doorbell rings, and I curse, so lost in examining every minute detail of Garrett Frost’s face and style that I am somewhere else entirely. “The doorbell just scared the hell out of me. Hang on. Someone’s at the door.”

  I glance through the semisheer privacy blind covering the wide window overlooking my front yard and spy the UPS driver walking quickly back to his waiting truck. “I’ve got a package. Let me call you back.”

  “Okay. Talk soon.”

  I return my phone to my pocket and open the door, bending to pick up the box sitting on my doorstep. Excitement lifts my spirits as I note the sender: ECRA+ Cosmeceuticals—the project that kept my sanity intact over the past year.

  Straightening, I hurry back inside, engaging the dead bolt quickly before heading to the kitchen for scissors. A few minutes later, I’ve got the contents spread out over my kitchen island, an assortment of skin care products in cream-and-gold packaging. The logo and overall design convey high-end luxury that delivers results—exactly the right look for Cross Industries’ new line of skin care that bridges the gap between pharmaceuticals and cosmetics.

  I carefully unseal the box of one item, trying to preserve the gorgeous packaging as much as possible. The bottle inside has me oohing with joy. Thick frosted glass shields a golden center. The sanitary airless pump is weighty gold, with a distinguishing aqua-blue band that denotes which step in the recommended skin care regimen the product falls within.

  Picking up the enclosed note card, I recognize Eva Cross’s handwriting.

  Teagan,

  We couldn’t have done it without you.

  Here’s to a grand beginning!

  Best, Eva

  The smile on my face feels good. Here is proof that despite stepping away from my life’s work in cosmetic surgery, I still managed to help create something worthwhile that might make someone in the world feel beautiful. And with a portion of the profits going to Eva’s philanthropic Crossroads Foundation, I’m contributing in a small way to improving lives beyond just beauty.

  I’m sniffing a drop of naturally scented serum on the back of my hand when I hear the unmistakable sound of a delivery vehicle’s sliding door. Walking back over to the window, I see a postal service truck in my driveway. Since most USPS packages are left in the locked box up at the street, I expect it’s something big and head to the door. Fact is, I do most of my shopping online, from groceries to takeout, clothes to household goods. It’s just safer that way.

  Grabbing my keys because the front doorknob is perpetually locked from the outside, I unlock the dead bolt and pull the door open to meet my mail carrier.

  And nearly run straight into Garrett Frost.

  3

  “Where are you going?” Garrett demands, scowling down at me.

  “Excuse me?” I feel like I crashed into him, even though I managed to avoid a collision with a quick hop back. Dressed in a fitted black T-shirt, worn loose jeans, and combat boots, he’s a different guy from the one I ran into earlier. The addition of more clothes, however, does nothing to blunt his impact on me.

  I ponder this, distressed to realize how affected I am. A dam only holds if it has no cracks. “We really need to stop meeting like this.”

  “Listen,” he says, “I want a do-over.”

  “A what?”

  “I want to forget about running into each other earlier. Let’s start over.”

  “Start over,” I repeat.

  “Yes.” He extends his hand to me. “I’m Garrett Frost.”

  I stare at his tattoo sleeve, perceiving design and texture and dimension.

  Heaving an irritated breath, he grabs my hand. “And you’re Dr. Teagan Ransom. Nice to meet you.”

  “Uh—”

  “Now, invite me in.”

  My pulse leaps. “Why would I do that?”

  “Why wouldn’t you?”

  Gaze narrowed suspiciously, I ask, “Did you move in next door?”

  “Yep. Saw you come back a bit ago.”

  I wait for him to say something else, but he just stares at me intent
ly.

  “Since you didn’t seem too happy about running into me,” I say finally, “I’m wondering why you’re here.”

  “No one’s happy about getting blindsided.” Garrett shoves his hands in his back pockets, lingering on my doorstep.

  In my face.

  “I had a lot on my mind,” he tells me. “Work, moving here, stuff I’ve got to get done sooner rather than later. Seeing you running full tilt at me threw me off. Then you ended up lying beneath me a few seconds later, and I got blindsided all over again. You felt it, too.”

  I have to admit, I appreciate his bluntness.

  He waits for me to speak, patient as a spider in a web.

  “So we’re physically attracted to each other,” I admit cautiously, feeling like we should’ve taken a lot longer to acknowledge that out loud.

  His mouth curves in a slow, easy smile. “We’re on the same page.”

  “I don’t think so. I think you’ve made a big leap from there.”

  “I’m about to.” He crosses the threshold with that swift animal grace.

  I’m off my feet, suspended, and he’s tilting his head to take my mouth in a greedy openmouthed kiss that takes my breath away. My lips burn beneath the heat of his. His arm is below my buttocks like a sling; the other crosses my shoulder blades. His hand takes hold of the loose braid hanging down my back and doesn’t let go. He kicks the door shut behind him.

  I breathe him in, the scent of citrus and spice. His flavor slides into me with the stroke of his tongue, a low growl of lust vibrating from his chest to mine. I squirm, overcome, and realize I’m not trapped. I’m secured.

  My legs circle his waist. My hands grasp the rough silk of his hair.

  Tightening my thighs, I lift, forcing his head back as I rise over him. He takes my shifting weight with ease, opening his mouth wide as I deepen the kiss.

  God, his lips look so firm, but they’re soft. His body is as hard and hot as sun-warmed stone, but he’s vibrantly alive in my arms. No matter how I move against him, he fits us together, the plains and valleys sliding into alignment, as if to prove our bodies were meant for just this.