When I came home from work to my small condo with hundreds of roses littering the porch, I stopped breathing for a minute.

He found me.

I had done everything I could do to get away from him. It was how I spent my last year of college. Not getting internships or picking out my graduation outfit, not at frat parties - not that I would ever go to one of those - or the last football games. I was trying to get a restraining order from my ex-boyfriend, file a police report, and get him expelled from school.

I only managed to get the first two things done.

For my safety, I dropped out and I completed her courses online. I didn't even walk at my graduation.

But I got away from Tim. And that was all I cared about.

At that moment, the door to my new next door neighbor's house slammed open and a girl - probably early twenties, if I had to guess - walked out in a silky robe, no shoes, and a disgruntled look on her face.

"You're an asshole, Jackman," she called over her shoulder. "You were only picked up by the Gulls because you are a cheap piece of shit defenseman."

I glanced over at Art Jackman, a veteran defenseman for the Newport Beach Seagulls, a hockey team part of the national hockey league. I wasn't a sports follower but I knew the guy had to be making at least a million per year for his contract so I had no idea why he was staying at a relatively cheap condo in the affluent Irvine when he could probably afford to buy a mansion in Newport Beach. I didn't know much about him; he was quiet, kept to himself, minded his own business. And, I assumed, he lived under his means, which I could appreciate. 

It didn't hurt that he was drop-dead gorgeous in a rough-around-the-edges sort of way. His face was aging, lines were set in, but that didn't hinder the sharp jawline or the high cheekbones. In fact, it only added to his attraction. His hazel eyes were always guarded, even when he walked to his mailbox to grab his mail, his brown hair unruly always. It was short but thick and couldn't seem to sit still, like a child in the lobby of a pediatrician's office. He was also tall, probably a good foot taller than I was, making him at least six feet four, and stocky, with muscles on every inch of his body. 

"What are you looking at, Blondie?" the beautiful woman snapped, looking at me with narrowed eyes. "Those fucking flowers are probably from him, aren't they?" She whirled her glare at Art Jackman, who leaned against his porch awning, his hands shoved in the pockets of his tight jeans. His tan skin glowed under the setting sun and the look on his face was passive although slightly bemused.

"They're not from him," was my reply, which sounded stupid once I heard the words come out of my mouth.

The brunette beauty gave me a critical look-over and snorted. "You're not even his type," she muttered and twirled around dismissively to flip Art off one last time before stomping to her car parked on the side of the road in her stiletto heels.

I shot my brow up as she watched the woman do so. She thought stomping around in stiletto heels was definitely a talent considering I couldn't even walk in them. Which was a shame, since I was around five foot two and could use any help I could get in the height department.

"Friend of yours?" I asked Art, quirking a brow. I hoped it didn't come across as judgmental.

He snorted. His lips curled up into what couldn't quite be called a smile. "I wouldn't go that far," he said in his gravelly voice.

It was a voice I should be afraid of. Rough around the edges, just like he was. But it offered me a sense of security. Probably because it was nothing like his. 

I turned back to the roses and felt a shudder slide down my spine. How the hell had he found me? I had done everything right. I had gone to every length except change my name. And yet, his power had no bounds.

I hated living in fear. I hated that staring at roses caused my entire body to tense.

I clenched her teeth and grabbed the first bouquet. Without warning, I walked to my garbage bin and stuffed them in the plastic container. I whirled around on my black flats and proceeded to do that with every single one of them. In fact, I even threw away the fallen petals, not wanting any blood-red stain on the pavement I would have to walk on every morning when I checked her mail.

"I take it you don't like roses?"

The gravelly voice made me jump and I forced myself to catch my breath as I closed the lid on my garbage bin, only to find my neighbor unmoved, leaning against the banister of his porch. His arms were crossed over his chest, revealing the extremely thick biceps that made up his upper arms. Normally, I didn't like men in tank tops - I refused to call them wife beaters - but in that moment, when my id controlled my ego, I thanked God for them, if only to feast on the sight before me.

I cleared my throat when I realized how dry it had gotten. I hoped I hadn't made it obvious that I was ogling him like I was back in middle school and he was Eminem.

"I just...”

My hands were sweaty. Why were my hands sweaty?

I rubbed them on the front of my slacks. It probably made me look like an idiot but at least it gave me something to do.

"It depends on who's sending them."

This statement seemed to surprise him, judging by the look on his face.

He wouldn’t understand.

That was fine. I understood. Why would done NHL player give any kind of shit about some city records clerk?

“Do you need help?” he asked.

His voice was tentative, like he didn’t know what to do. Which made sense. It was clear he didn’t do serious relationships. And that was fine. I wasn’t going to judge him. He could do whatever he wanted for all I cared. He was just my neighbor.

A good-looking neighbor, sure, but just my neighbor.

“Um...” I wasn’t sure what he meant, if I was being honest. I perked my brow and turned around again, my arms filled with the second batch of roses I planned to remove. “What do you mean?”

He nodded his head to the pile in my hands. I appreciated that just because we were talking, he didn’t assume that he was allowed to cross over the proverbial line and walk over to my place. Men seemed to think they owned everything, even the right to go wherever the hell they wanted.

Luckily, Art Jackman wasn’t like other guys. At least, that was what it seemed like so far. He certainly didn’t look like them.

“I think I should be fine,” I managed to say, feeling my face turn red at the thought of Art and how attractive he was and why was he even talking to me when his gorgeous hook up had run off and probably wasn’t going to come back. “No big deal. I can handle it.”

It was that moment when I slipped on my porch steps and landed on my rear, the roses covering me in a shower of red petals and thorns.

I was a hot mess.

My butt hurt but I didn’t want to show that because I already felt like an idiot. I didn’t need to show it any more than I already had.

I sprung up, my entire face contorting into a wince because my movement was too fast, and without realizing just what I was doing, I grabbed my butt in hopes to alleviate the pain.

“Are you sure you don’t need help?” Art called from his position in front of his house. 

I didn’t have to look at him to know his lips were curled up - though it definitely wouldn’t be considered a smile.

He was in my front yard in a minute, kneeling down and picking up the stems without bothering to concern himself with the thorns. It must not affect him. He must have a second layer of skin thanks to all the time he’d spent already in the NHL. The guy was in his thirties, for sure. If he was drafted young, that was fifteen years in the league. Not that I knew much about hockey. Just the basics.

Okay so maybe I started watching Gulls’ games ever since I found out he was my neighbor. The team was winning anyway so it was actually more exciting than I gave it credit for. Which was saying a lot since I was not a sports person at all.

But maybe I could be a hockey girl.

“Trash?” he asked.

I blinked up at him, confused. He nodded towards the roses.

“Where do you want these?” he asked me again.

Oh. Duh.

Sometimes, I got so caught up in my thoughts that I didn’t realize someone was even speaking to me. I really wished that hadn’t been the case talking to Art Jackman but apparently, it was.

“The trash is fine,” I said, forcing a smile and hoping I didn’t look like an asshole.

He nodded and proceeded to throw them away without speaking. That was one thing I actually appreciated about Art Jackman - his ability to be a man of few words. Even when we net, I didn’t think he did more than just grunt at me.

Which was fine.

This is the most I’d ever talked to him before. I liked the sound of his voice, I realized. It was low and gravelly, almost like sandpaper. It made me skin tense but my pelvis tumbled. Which was strange since I hadn’t used my pelvis in a long time. Except when I pleased myself. Which I did since I wasn’t going to go and get a one-night stand so I could get off. Especially considering I was the best person at touching myself and knowing what pleased me.

“Are you hot?”

I blinked from my kneeling position and craned my neck back. Art looked down at me with a cocked head and questions in his hazel eyes.

He had beautiful eyes, I noticed. A gold color, with flecks of green. I could stare into those eyes forever and not get bored.

“Excuse me?”

I wasn’t sure I heard the question correctly.

The corner of his lips curled up. “Are you hot?” he repeated again. “Your face is getting flushed even though it’s not too warm outside.”

My face might have been flushed before but now it was burning red.

This was why I didn’t talk to gorgeous guys. Somehow, the thought of sex crept into my mind and I made myself look like even more of an asshole than I probably was.

“Oh, no.” I laughed nervously - did my laugh seriously sound like a banshee, or was he bringing out the awkward high school girl I thought I had grown out of? - and waved his question away almost dismissively. “No. I just have a lot on my mind.”

I wished I could have taken that back.

His smile - although it was so small, I wouldn’t even call it a smile - turned into a full-fledged smirk.

“Really?” he asked, wrinkling his brow. “What, exactly, are you thinking about then?”

“Um...” 

I literally had no response to that. Instead, I pushed up into a standing position and headed to my trash can, my head tilted so my blonde hair fell into my face and masked the redness. I was sure he saw it, though.

“Thank you.” I spun around to acknowledge him, hoping the change of subject would throw him off and keep him from continuing his questioning. “For your help. With this. You didn’t, you didn’t have to.”

I didn’t want him to. But I couldn’t help but admit that it wasn’t all that bad. It was nice to hear him talk.

“Oh.” Now he seemed uncomfortable. “You don’t have to thank me. But, um, you’re welcome.”

We both looked at each for a long minute. This was where we were supposed to shake hands or we were supposed to hug or something. But Art and I weren’t normal. We didn’t adhere to appropriate social norms. So he nodded and I nodded and we both went to our porches.

I glanced back at him just to see him, just to watch him walk inside.

I was surprised to see him with his door halfway open, staring back at me with those beautiful eyes.