As soon as she stepped around the wall, she nearly ran into a shirtless Rome.
Elise gasped in shock and stumbled backward, only to have Rome reach out and grab her arm before she could topple over.
“Careful,” he told her. “Wet paint.”
Her eyes widened and she stiffened in surprise. She hadn’t been expecting anyone out here, and she hadn’t heard him working. The shock of seeing another person was bad enough; the fact that it was Rome, the object of her crush, had her speechless.
As always, Rome was mouth-wateringly beautiful. If she’d come up with a dream of what the ideal dangerous man would be, Rome fit the description to a tee. He was big and muscular, his torso thick and rock-hard, and his arms enormous, as if he worked out on a regular basis solely for the purpose of packing on muscle. In contrast to his dangerous body, he had a near-perfect face—beautiful blue eyes with thick, black lashes, a chiseled jaw, and a firm, unbroken nose. And he was pierced—through the nose, in both ears, in his lip. It only added to his wicked look.
Every time she saw him, she was struck by two things: how utterly pretty those blue, thickly lashed eyes were, and how completely covered in tattoos he was. Rome looked as if he’d never said no to someone wielding a needle, and his chest was covered from neck to navel with designs; both arms were colorful sleeves of tattoos. Tanned skin peeked out between the designs, along with the gleam of sweat on his body. He was shirtless despite the chill of the day, dressed only in a pair of sweatpants and combat boots.
Just the sight of him made her entire body lock up due to a mixture of longing and fear. Longing because he’d never want someone like her, and fear that he’d mock her or be cruel, as cocky men so often were when they came across a shy woman. His hand felt like a brand on her arm, scorching hot. She looked down at his tanned hand on her pale arm and noticed that even his long, strong fingers had tattoos.
Elise gulped and twisted her arm out of his.
“Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to scare you.” He gestured with his other hand, which held a dripping paint roller. “I just didn’t want you to trip and ruin your clothes.”
She blinked at him, her mind racing. She should say something, she decided. She’d seen Rome about a half dozen times now, and she’d seen him without his shirt before. Every time he’d been nothing but polite. And it was just the two of them outside. This would be the perfect chance for her to smile and say something polite, like Beth Ann would, or crack a joke like Brenna.
But she wasn’t Beth Ann, and she wasn’t Brenna. She was Elise Markham, and she was tongue-tied. So her mind raced through a list of things to say, discarded each one, and ended up remaining mute.
“You taking pictures?” Rome asked her. “You want me to move out of the shot?”
She clutched her camera closer to her breast, letting her hair swing over her cheek to cover it. Oh god, she was outside in natural light. That was when the stain on her cheek was most visible. What if he noticed it? What if he saw that one of her shoulders slumped lower than the other? What if he asked about her posture? She’d be humiliated.
Hunching her shoulders, Elise skittered away a foot or two and popped on her lens cap. She stared at the ground. Say something, she chided herself. Anything! He’s going to think you hate him worse than he already thinks you do!
But she thought back to the other day, when she’d seen him at the restaurant.
Maybe I should volunteer to be Elise’s man-meat . . .
Oh god. What had he thought about their drunken suggestion? Had he been revolted? He probably was. He could get any girl he wanted—
“You okay?” Rome asked as she remained silent. She could feel his gaze on her.
She could tell him she was fine. That she wouldn’t have fallen over, and so it wasn’t necessary for him to grab her. She’d liked that grab, though. Even now, her skin throbbed where he’d touched her. She brushed her fingers over her arm, struggling to think of something to say that would sound strong. That would come out right.
But when nothing came to mind, she turned and bolted, hurrying away back to where she’d abandoned her camera bag.
She was such a coward.
TWO
Rome watched Elise Markham run away from him as if the hounds of hell were nipping at her feet and tried not to feel annoyed at the sight.
He’d never met a girl so completely wigged out at the sight of tattoos and a few piercings. He knew he wasn’t the most clean-cut guy, but hell. He wasn’t that grotesque, was he? Elise Markham had probably grown up with a silver spoon in her mouth and a Porsche in the driveway. She probably thought guys like him were just the help. That thought soured him on her, fast.
Sure¸ she was pretty. Damn pretty. Sweet and innocent-seeming, two things that cranked his chain. But she flinched and ran every time she saw him. It was either hate or fear. He couldn’t decide which one, and it was downright puzzling, considering that he was polite to her at all times.
But he remembered the words of her pretty friends in the restaurant. There’s no one in town who’s Elise’s type.
No one good enough for Little Miss Blueblood. That was the story of his life, Rome mused. Never good enough for the right kind of girls. He slapped the roller down into the gray paint and then ran it back over the wall, glad for the diversion of painting.
Work was always a good distraction, and this was clean, honest labor. He’d gladly do this until the sun went down. By then, he’d have pretty, snobby Elise Markham out of his head.
• • •
Six hours later, Rome had the base coat of the last castle wall painted, and he’d cut down some more logs to make another mini bunker to hide behind. He was rather pleased with how the paintball course was turning out. Pop was too old to help with the grunt work, and Dane was picking up all the training classes while Colt was on his honeymoon. Grant was doing whatever the boss did. Probably f**king his cute, crazy little secretary again, Rome figured.
That left Rome in charge of getting everything ready for the paintball course to open up next month. He didn’t mind. At this point, all it required was a little imagination and brute strength, and those were two things Rome had in spades. Plus, no one had fired him for lying about his credentials yet, so he still had a paycheck coming in and a roof over his head.
Things were looking up, really.
He put the paint and rollers away in the storage shed at the back of the main lodge and swiped at his brow again. He was sweating like a pig, and his muscles ached, but it was a good ache. The ache of a day spent in hard, honest labor. He liked that. It was, however, time for a shower and some food. Food first, he decided, and headed in to the main lodge through the back door.