Sun-kissed Disruptions
Sage
Holy s**t.
He's enormous.
My gaze flickers over him behind my oversized sunglasses, my jaw tightening as I try to process what I’m seeing. Calling him "big" doesn’t even begin to do him justice. This man is a titan—easily pushing seven feet, with a body that looks like it was sculpted by the gods out of bronze and steel. The sweltering Manhattan sun glistens on his sweat-slicked skin, highlighting the intricate tattoos that ripple over muscles carved with precision.
I bite down on the inside of my cheek, forcing myself to stay composed as my eyes betray me, tracing the lines of his jaw, his dark, tousled hair, and the magnetic pull of his emerald-green eyes—eyes sharp enough to pin me in place from across the pool.
My pulse stumbles, and I shift uncomfortably in my lounge chair, pretending the heat rising in my chest is from the sun and not from him.
He’s different.
Not the kind of clean-cut, suit-and-tie type my father usually hires—those types fade into the background like wallpaper. No, this man radiates danger and authority. With arms thick enough to snap tree trunks and an aura that commands attention, he’s impossible to ignore. A walking contradiction of rugged masculinity and quiet control.
For the last two hours, I’ve watched him haul boxes and direct the movers, his every movement deliberate and powerful. And yet, in all that time, he hasn’t looked at me once.
Not once.
It’s… unsettling.
I know how this sounds, but men notice me. It comes with the territory of having my face plastered across billboards, gossip magazines, and talk shows. My world revolves around being seen, whether I want it or not. I’ve grown up with strangers gawking at me, their gazes lingering too long even when I was far too young for it to be appropriate. I’ve learned to endure it, to weaponize it when necessary.
But him? He hasn’t even spared me a glance.
Is he blind? Or immune to beauty? Either way, it’s a problem.
I flip the page of my magazine with a deliberate nonchalance, refusing to acknowledge the tension simmering in the air between us. But when I glance up, I catch him staring. And not just any stare—it’s a glare, sharp and cutting, like he’s offended by my very existence.
And then, he moves.
He strides toward me with the kind of purpose that makes my throat go dry. His brows are furrowed, his jaw clenched, and those emerald eyes blaze with something I can’t quite place.
“Get up,” he growls, stopping right in front of me, towering over my lounging form.
I arch a brow behind my sunglasses, a smirk curling my lips. It’s my signature move—the one that screams I dare you while maintaining an air of effortless control.
“Excuse me?” I say, my tone dripping with mockery.
“You’re exposed out here,” he snaps, gesturing to the open backyard with a jerk of his chin. “There are clear sightlines to four rooftops, not to mention the bend in the road over the hill.”
I blink, momentarily stunned by his audacity. Then, I recover, folding my arms across my chest. “I’m sorry, are you my security or my personal stylist?”
His jaw ticks, and a slow, dangerous smirk spreads across his face. “Both, apparently.”
I scoff, shaking my head. “Listen, I don’t know who you think you are, but you’re not my babysitter. You can go back to… whatever it is you were doing.”
He doesn’t budge. Instead, he crosses his arms over his chest, muscles flexing as he leans down just enough to invade my space.
“You’ve got three seconds to get inside, princess,” he growls.
I blink, taken aback. “You wouldn’t dare—”
“One.”
“You do know who I am, right?”
“Two.”
“Touch me, and I’ll—”
“Three.”
Before I can finish, he’s moving.
I gasp as his hands—strong, warm, and entirely uninvited—grip my waist and hoist me off the lounge chair like I weigh nothing. I screech, my sunglasses slipping down my nose as he tosses me over his shoulder like a sack of flour.
“Put me down!” I shriek, pounding my fists against his back.
“Not until you’re inside,” he rumbles, his voice a low vibration against my stomach.
“This is kidnapping!”
“This is keeping you alive, princess.”
And damn it all, if the heat in his tone doesn’t make my stomach flip.
I screech, kicking and hitting him as my pulse thunders like an engine in my ears. I can feel his muscles rippling against my body - his bare skin against mine,
"You're not the boss of me!"
"I am now, princess."
