Just By Looking At Him Novels & Stories

Everyone looked up as he walked in. Tall, broad shoulders under that charcoal button-down he’d rolled to the elbows. Silver threading through his dark hair like someone had dragged moonlight across it. Jaw sharp enough to cut glass. Eyes the color of storm clouds right before lightning. He looked perfectly composed. Calm. The picture of a respectable single dad in his mid-forties who coached Little League once and still got invited to every neighborhood barbecue. But I saw it. The faint flush high on his cheekbones. The way his hand flexed once at his side like he was remembering the shape of me. The quick, burning glance he flicked my way—gone in half a second, but it scorched anyway.

The white shirt beneath softens the sharpness of him just enough, the top button undone, like he couldn’t be bothered to be entirely formal. His hair is neat, but not stiff. It was controlled just like him. And then there’s his face. Calm. Composed. Unreadable. But his eyes are on me. Steady, unblinking, and watching. My steps falter slightly. He looks… Good. No. Not just good. Extraordinarily good. He looks so handsome. Powerful. Like the kind of man you don’t get involved with— And yet somehow… I already have.

Just him, standing at the table with his sleeves rolled to his elbows, studying a map like it had personally offended him. The sight of him still knocked the air from my lungs. Sharp silver eyes with no haze left in them like the day he woke up. His shoulders filled the room, muscle pulling against fabric like his body had healed faster than anyone expected. Dark stubble lined his jaw. He looked powerful and worn down all at once. “You’re late,” he said without looking up. “Well… yes,” I replied. “You don't honestly think my life revolves around just this pack?” He glanced up then, his gaze holding me.

I study his face. He looks like a man who does not find a lot of things funny but when he does it is probably worth seeing. Strong jaw. Dark hair cut short. Eyes that are doing something thoughtful even in a casual photo. He is standing beside a car in one picture and something about the way he holds himself tells me he is not someone who gets surprised easily. Good, I think. Because what I am about to show him is going to be a lot. I click the friend request button before I can talk myself out of it.

That’s when I see him. He’s across the room, leaning casually against the wall with his dark eyes fixed on me. His suit fits him like a second skin. It's perfectly tailored, with a crisp white shirt underneath. He’s too far for me to make out his expression, but I know he’s smiling. The kind of smile that sends a chill up your spine, not because it’s warm, but because it knows too much. Who is he? And why is he looking at me like that? I swallow hard, breaking the connection by looking down at my glass. My instincts scream at me, warning me to leave, to run. But this is a public event, filled with people.

"He also smiled at me when I was passing by." These bitches can't see, he was looking at me. Or maybe towards the photographers. I can't think straight. I ignore these girls and focus my attention on the hotty. I see he has already reached the stage, completely facing the crowd. His shoulders are broad and sharp while his hooded eyes gawk penetratingly at the audience as if they are looking for something. He looks so animalistic, like he is in predator mode. Rawrrr. Damn, that anatomy though!

He may be rich as fuck, but he’s not the kind of man who’s content to sit behind a polished desk and let himself be pampered. I try not to stare at the way his shirt hugs his biceps and chest, or the way his tanned forearms look stronger than any other man’s I’ve ever seen. I know I’m failing when I look up and see him looking at me with an amused grin on his face. Fuck, we’re not even ten minutes into the damn trip, and I’ve already been caught out for ogling him.

Theo. There was an easy, casual confidence in him, which he underlined with the boyish, crooked smirk that melted the tension of his look. He looked precisely like the kind of mysterious dude that people wound up talking to at a party: a fitted black shirt, members of the blue (almost black) jeans sect, and the kind of blonde that practically radiated electrical energy. Around him the room pulsed and twitched, but the only thing he watched was me. “You made it,” he said, voice low enough that only I could hear. There was a note of surprise in his tone, as if he hadn’t expected to see me here.

“You didn’t have to buy this for me.” He shrugged. “You looked like you needed it.” I tilted my head, studying him. Up close, he was even more striking. Strong jaw, dark eyes, broad shoulders under a black shirt that fit like it was sewn on him. He wasn’t smiling, but there was something about his stillness that pulled me in. “You don’t dance?” I asked. “Not really,” he said. “I like to watch.” That made my skin prickle. “Watch what?”

“Don’t look at him.” “Why? He’s attractive enough to look at.” “Your visual standards could stand to improve.” I grimaced.