Of course I can handle Ty Wilder.

I’m a (kind of) strong, (semi) independent woman, and I can. Handle. Ty. Wilder.

Jesus Christ. I so can’t handle him.

He paces around me like a tiger, checking me out head to toe, and doesn’t even attempt to hide it.

His eyes are scanning me like he’s trying to decide whether he likes what he sees. I’m acutely aware of my body, and I instinctively suck in my stomach and straighten my posture. When I realize what I’ve done, I’m horrified. Every feminist bone in my body instructs me to get the hell out of here, but Brain is momentarily kidnapped by Hormones and has duct tape plastered to its mouth. I’m melting like candlewax from the intentness of his gaze. I’m freakin’ mute. Just as well, since I doubt I’d make much sense when he is so incredibly close.

“Punch me, Barbie,” he murmurs, his hooded gaze boring into my clothes, making me feel oh-so-very naked.

“Stop calling me that.” I wet my lips, my mouth dry. He keeps circling me, his wifebeater tight against his muscular body.

“Punch. Me. Now,” he barks into my face. “What the hell are you waiting for? Come on now. Give it all you got.”

I lift my arm and send a weak punch into his bicep, barely making contact. He throws his beautiful head back and laughs, showing off a string of pearly whites. His smile dies quickly.

“Harder, Barbie.”

Thump.

“HARDER!”

Thump.

“H-A-R-D-E-R!”

I stop and stare at him. He moves closer. I know he expects it to throw me off balance, and I play along. I take a step back, so he takes two steps forward. He is now predictable to me, and I have every intention of taking advantage of it. Plan ahead, he said, right? We continue this stupid tango until I have him at an angle that allows me to throw a good punch.

“You get off on bullying me, don't you?” I build momentum and throw the hardest blow I can produce. My knuckles throb as my fist collides with his taut stomach muscles. Even though I’m the one hitting him, I’m also the one yelping like a little girl who just got wedgied. The impact is so hard, my shoulder almost dislocates. I'd like to think I managed to hurt him, but judging by the lazy smirk plastered on his face, I doubt he even felt it.

"Seriously?" I shriek. He didn't even flinch.

He taps his lower lip looking upwards, pretending to think about something. "You do realize I'm a professional fighter, right?"

"Nah, I thought you were an astrophysicist." I bite my inner cheek and fold my arms.

His smirk breaks into a grin, and he pins me against the wall and boxes me between his massive arms. I gasp my surprise and feel the heat humming between us like electricity. There’s crazy laughter in his eyes and I can feel his ribs and abs crushing against my chest. His forefinger presses on my lips as his weight shifts onto my much smaller body with force.

“Do. Not. Yell,” he whispers.

Every hair on my body stands at attention. I battle for air, my gaze shifting from his eyes to his lips. I’m under a deep spell, and I’m beginning to forget the reason I don’t want him in the first place. He is so sinfully sexy that it actually makes me angry. Angry at him, angry at myself, and especially angry at his mother, who raised a son who is so freaking sure he can have every girl he’s ever laid eyes on.

Ty is staring down at me, calculating his next move under those thick, dark eyelashes. His jaw is clenched, and he looks like million things are running through his head at the same time.

“Tyler…” I clear my throat. My voice sounds foreign to me. “Don’t kiss me.”

I don’t want to get hurt. And kissing him is hurling me in the fast lane toward a collision with this walking calamity. Cocky, over-confident, explosive.

And I have absolutely no control over my feelings around him.

“You’re scared,” he states evenly, his gaze steady on mine.

I nod, closing my eyes before I’m the one who kisses him.

“Good. You should be.” He untangles me from his grasp and takes a step back. Air leaves my lungs once I’m no longer clasped between his arms, leaving me deflated and cold. He starts walking toward the door as I hold one arm against the wall, regaining my balance.

“That was a good punch,” he mutters almost to himself, but the next thing he says is loud and clear and definitely meant for me to hear. “And you’re right, to be scared. I would never hit you, Barbie, but I’ll hurt you, alright.”

He shuts the door behind him with a thud, leaving me to stand alone in the big, empty room.

I slide down the wall to the floor and clasp my head, shaking it as I try to figure out what just happened.

I’m in trouble. Deep, deep trouble.

***

“I’m not sure eating a egg salad sandwich before watching The Walking Dead is a good combo.” I moan, my head resting beside Shane’s shoulder. We’re both fighting our gag reflex, our eyes glued to the TV as a zombie’s head explodes.

“I’m not sure eating and watching The Walking Dead is a good combo, period,” he says.

On the TV screen, Rick is doing some father-son bonding with Carl as they both kill a bunch of zombies. I sigh and burrow into Shane’s “I Like Kids, They’re Delicious With Ketchup” tee.

“How was the practice today, dopey?” He runs his fingers through my hair, and I let him. So what if he squeezed my leg the other day? He's also a close friend, and I'm sure he got the hint.