Shredded Read Online Free

got it, thanks.” His grin widens, and it only ticks me off to see that my ire amuses him. At least until he reaches for the back neckline of his shirt and pulls it over his head in one smooth movement. By the time he starts dabbing at his black pants with it, my anger is a thing of the past. And so are my brain cells.
    I can’t help it. I try to stay pissed, but it’s hard to actually formulate thoughts—any thoughts—when I’m confronted with a half-naked Z.
    I mean, the guy’s an alien. He has to be, because human beings just don’t look like this. At least not outside of magazine shoots and Hollywood movies. And maybe not even there.
    Despite the winter weather, his skin is a soft, golden bronze that’s a testament to just how much time he spends outside with his shirt off—despite the snow. His arms are big, his shoulders well developed. And his abs. Omigod, his abs are a work of art. Forget six-pack. This guy has an eight-working-on-ten-pack, and for a second—just a second—my eyes nearly cross as I imagine what it would be like to lick a path straight from his collarbone to his navel.
    He shifts a little under my scrutiny and for the first time I notice the scars he’s got—on his arm, his chest, over his ribs, down the side of his abs. Way too many scars for a normal guy to have. But he isn’t a normal guy, I remind myself. He’s a snowboarder, one known for taking crazy risks and doing really wild stunts. Is it any wonder his body is so torn up?
    Not that the scars make him look bad. Just the opposite. Somehow they only reinforce the beauty of all that hard-packed muscle and golden skin. The same way his ink does. I try to look away, but I can’t. I’m fascinated by the tattoo that covers the entire right half of his upper body. It’s a wall of tribal-looking flames in shades of black and gray that start somewhere below his waist and lick all the way up to his shoulder, over his pec, and down his right arm. It’s beautiful, really well designed, and sexy as hell. On his left side is another tattoo, this one a bunch of words in a fancy black script that I’m too far away to read. But I want to. Suddenly I’m dying to knowwhat words are so important that a guy like Z would brand himself with them.
    Something tickles the side of my chin and I have an abrupt, mortifying fear that it’s my own saliva. That I am literally standing here drooling at the work of art that is Z Michaels. I dash my hand over my chin just in case. Turns out I haven’t lost complete control of my salivary glands—it’s just a lock of hair that escaped from my bun.
    The realization snaps my brain back into action. A few seconds too late, but I’m a big believer in better late than never. Or at least I am now.
    “You know, we have a rule here at the Lost Canyon coffee bar,” I tell him with a little flick of my fingers. “No shirts, no shoes, no service. You should probably go take care of that somewhere else.”
    The dark eyes he turns on me are filled with disbelief and maybe, just maybe, a hint of respect. I’ve spent days watching how the female population around here responds to this guy, and I’m pretty sure that I’m the first one to call him on his shit since he hit puberty. Possibly even before.
    Just look at the girl he came in with. He was all over her when they first walked into the lodge, just like he’s been every time I’ve caught a glimpse of him the last few days. Not that I was looking for him or anything. But still. Then, within five minutes of being here, he’s hanging out with another girl—the trashy-looking one who threw herself in his path like a pilot on a kamikaze mission.
    Though, to be honest, it’s hard to blame him for the second girl. Whoever she was, the look she’d given him had told Z loud and clear that she didn’t mind if he climbed on right there in the middle of the coffee bar. My only surprise was that he hadn’t taken little Miss Can’t-Open-My-Legs-Fast-Enough up on