God, Ray. Snap out of it.

Turning on my heel, I hurry back to my borrowed home.

***

The wind howls outside as I climb onto the roofed beach terrace. Storms fascinate me. I love how they tear everything in their path, that magnificent violence that nothing can stop. That I can’t stop, and it feels good not to try for a second. Not to fight and scratch and bite at fate, trying to change things that can’t be changed.

The first fat drops of rain hit the roof over my head, and a smile tugs at my lips. The wind brings the scent of the sea, salty and fresh, and with it childhood memories from a trip we did when I was little. Dad, Mom, my brother and I running by the surf, chasing its lacework of foam.

A gray curtain of rain is moving over the ocean, approaching the shore. In a moment it’s going to be here, lashing the sand. Waves roll over the sea, rising higher and higher, walls of water.

Fierce.

I stand there, the wind tearing through me, and pinpricks of rain blown sideways hit my skin. It’s getting cold as the rain drenches me and I shiver.

That’s when I see someone running. Has to be the guy I saw last night. He’s bare-chested like yesterday, in shorts and running shoes. He comes pounding down the beach, his head down, his fisted hands held at his sides. Controlled. Strong. Beautiful.

I barely glimpse his back as he passes by—that tattoo curling up from the base of his spine—and recognize him as the worker I saw fixing that fence, and then the rain crashes down, swallowing him in noise and blurry lines. The wind howls as it drives the column of water across the shore.

He’s spat out of the blurriness again, a solid, gleaming shape—and then the waves crash over him, and I lose him.

Shit. What the hell just happened?

My feet start moving, and I’m jumping down the three wide steps and running after him. Why didn’t he move away from the water’s edge? Didn’t he see the waves? Doesn’t he know how easily they can knock you over and drag you into the sea?

“Hey!” The rain whips at my face, fills my eyes, blinds me. I can’t see him. I keep running, my feet sinking in the wet sand. The shorts hang heavy on my hips, sodden with water, my blouse clinging to my chest and shoulders, tight like a straightjacket. “Guy!”

My heart is hammering. I stop, turn in a circle. What the hell? Where is he? And why am I in such a panic? This makes no sense—except I’ve been hit by the waves life sent my way, and I’ve lost so much. I’ve lost people, and the moment of calm acceptance is gone. I fight, that’s what I do, that’s what’s kept me alive so far, and there’s no way I’m letting the sea have this stranger.

More waves crash, and I back up on the beach, looking for higher ground. So this is what a tropical storm is like. The wind shoves me sideways, and I stumble.

Christ. Maybe my eyes played tricks on me. Maybe he came running out of that wave and is long gone, heading home.

What am I doing?

As the rain comes down harder, a solid wall of water that robs me of my senses, I’m not even sure anymore. I should head back. This guy has probably been living here. He has to know the beach like the back of his hand, its whims and ways, in sunlight and stormy weather. Hell, he has to know the climate of this place all year round, unlike me.

But stubbornness drives me on, as usual, and I wade through the driving rain—just to make sure. The sand is swirling around my ankles. The beach has turned into a river that’s right now running back to the sea, and I drag my feet another yard.

And I bump into something solid. A curse cuts through the rain and wind, and a hand grabs my arm, its grip bruising.

Not something. Someone. I’m not even sure it’s the guy I’m looking for, but who else would be crazy enough to be out here?

“Come with me,” I yell to be heard over the noise and mayhem, and start walking toward the house. Mansion. Whatever it is I’ve broken into. “Let’s get out of the rain.”

He’s so close now, his face becomes visible, broad cheekbones and a full mouth. He looms over me, his eyes glinting. Christ, the guy’s tall. Definitely the guy I saw jogging earlier.

He lets go of me, and I grab his hand. It’s big and callused, and I try very hard not to think about how that sends a thrill through me, how his sheer size and strength excites me. Not to think what a mistake this is.

Don’t talk to strangers. How basic is that? Don’t talk to them and don’t drag them home with you in a storm, in an abandoned house nobody seems to have been in for months. Jeez, at this point in my life, I should keep clear of any human, stranger or not. See my thoughts about my roommate from before.

Seriously, Ray.

But I don’t let go of his hand. I start walking toward the mansion, up the faint slope, feet sloshing through the sand, and he follows.

One thing’s for sure: this part wasn’t in today’s plan at all.

***

We stumble across the beach, and a dark shape looms over us. The mansion. There’s the entrance to the roofed terrace, promising safety from the elements.

A pity. I like the sting of the rain on my back and arms, the force of the wind that’s trying to knock me sideways. Sometimes I wish I could let it take me, tumble me, roll me over and do what it wants with me so that I can stop worrying about tomorrow.

I climb up the first step to the terrace, and he tugs on my hand. I half turn, and he grabs my hips, pulling me to him. Instinctively, I jerk back, coming short when his hands tighten.

“Who the hell are you?” he whispers, his voice deep and hoarse, resonating inside my bones. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m just… housesitting,” I whisper back, scared and excited, and how can you be so stupid, Ray? “Let go of me.”

I shove at him and climb further up, to the top step. The sensor above us activates, and light floods my face.

“You’re the one who caught me,” he says evenly, a splinter of something darker in his voice, and instead of running into the house and slamming the door shut, I turn around.

My lips part, my tongue curls against the roof of my mouth, and I stare. All the words are like, gone. Nothing to work with here. My throat dries up.

Good God, if he looked good from afar, he’s like a punch to the gut from up close. Gorgeous, with water drops gleaming on his lashes like diamonds, his dark hair plastered to his head and a light scruff darkening his jaw. His eyes are some shade of blue, washed out in the harsh light. With a thin scar running down one side of that ripped chest, black and red tattoos curling over his ribs, and his shorts clinging to his narrow hips, he’s…

Yeah, no words. My heart is hammering like I’ve run a hundred miles. Heat rises in my cheeks. My insides tighten and throb.

I think I’ve just fallen in instant and complete lust. All I want is to run my hands over those pecs and washboard stomach, over the scar, rub at the scruff on his jaw and bury my fingers into the soft hair at his nape. I want…

No. Hell no.

No way.

I back away, more from shock at my body’s reaction to him than from fear—he’s actually stepped back down, to the sand, and is turning away—when my wet feet slip from under me and I’m falling.

It’s one of those moments that seem to take forever to unfold, when in reality it’s only a split second. My backside hits the wooden boards and then my hands strike down, sending bolts of pain up my arms and shoulders.

“Fuck.” He’s suddenly crouched at my side, his hands on my shoulders. “Are you okay?”

Figures that I’d come face-to-face with the sexiest man alive the moment I’m flat on my ass.

Okay, back up. This situation is twisting my brain. First I went out in the storm to save him, then pushed him away, and now... Now he’s asking if I’m okay.