All my plans of contributing to the good of humankind, of revolutionizing crop sciences, and solving world hunger?
Yeah. None of that shit is going to happen, because my heart is going to pound out of my chest like that alien in . . . well, Alien.
And I’m just standing there in the doorway.
Like a fucking moron.
While the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen stands there, staring at me.
No. Not at my face. At my chest.
My bare chest.
Because my fucking sister told me not to put on a shirt.
Chapter 9
Holly
Despite being a Southerner and watching Gone with the Wind with my memaw every Thanksgiving of my childhood while the “boys” watched football in the living room, I have never swooned.
I’m not a swooner.
I am too practical. Too reasonable. And despite being a self-proclaimed flibbertigibbet, too level-headed.
But when Max Ramsey opens the door to his house dressed only in some kind of workout pants, bare-chested with a towel draped around his neck, I just about swoon.
Just about.
Through some miracle, I manage to keep sucking air into my lungs, albeit at a greatly increased rate. Due to all my panting.
Because, Jesus H. Lettuce Crisper, Dr. Maximillian Ramsey has the body of a Nordic god. Specifically, a Nordic god of the cinematic variety. And for the first time since we’ve met, he’s not even scowling.
Who knew he was hiding all that under his ill-fitting jackets and repulsive ties?
If it had ever occurred to me to wonder about his body—and it hadn’t, despite (or maybe because of) this weird energy between us—I would have assumed his oversized clothes covered the doughy body typical of a man who spent his time in a lab.
Not that there was anything wrong with that.
Who was I to judge?
It wasn’t like I had a set of rock-hard abs.
But Ramsey was ripped.
And sculpted.
And—unless the sight of his sheer masculine beauty had brought tears to my eyes that were messing with my vision—he was covered in a light sheen of sweat.
Holy Brewer of Coffee.
There is a long moment where we both just stand there. Him, staring at me with the same slightly dumbfounded, slightly horrified look he always wears around me. Me, gawking back in abject lust, trying to decide if I need to wipe the drool off my chin before or after the ground opens up beneath my feet to swallow me whole.
Which I am definitely praying it will do any minute now.
Any.
Minute.
