The instant I smell her, my dick stirs.
I swear I don’t mean to, but my gaze drops from her eyes to her lips. Which are surprisingly full when they aren’t pinched into frowning disapproval.
Right now, they’re not pinched at all. Her mouth is slightly open, like she’s having as much trouble catching her breath as I am. Nope, not pinched at all, but full and moist and I’m struck by the almost irresistible urge to kiss those lips.
It shocks the hell out of me because I’m never struck by urges and I never kiss anyone. Ever.
Not in more than a decade. Not since the last woman I kissed called me a monster.
Despite all reason, logic, and common sense, I want to kiss Holly Dolinsky.
Badly.
Which is possibly the worst idea I’ve ever had.
No, not possibly. Definitely.
Though it would likely result in her running screaming from my lab.
But since it would also undoubtedly result in a workplace harassment lawsuit, I don’t.
Instead, I back down.
For the first time in my entire adult life,I’mthe one who backs down from a fight.
That’s what this woman and her lemon-pancake-scented hair has brought me to.
I take a step back, and then another. My damn leg means I can’t just turn and stomp off. Men of my size don’t turn easily even when they aren’t crippled. I have to back up nearly four feet before I can comfortably steer myself around her to stomp away.
Except, when I make it to the other side of the lab, I have nothing to do there. I have no reason to have walked away from her other than my obvious retreat.
But . . . if I retreat all the way into the clean room, that’s the one place she can’t follow. It doesn’t matter that I have nothing to do once I get in there. She won’t know that. She’ll have to leave.
So I stalk the rest of the way over to the door on the opposite side of the lab and start the procedure for entering the clean room. Watch off. Shoes off.
She doesn’t take the hint. Of course she doesn’t take the hint.
When she speaks next, she’s right behind me.
“Your work is no more complicated than Neil deGrasse Tyson’s.”
Her voice has lost that steely, defiant quality. Maybe my intimidation tactics actually worked. The thought should make me feel better, but doesn’t.
“If he can explain theoretical physics, then—”
“Neil deGrasse Tyson is a showboating—”
“There is nothing wrong with needing help,” she says quietly.
Like she’s been cowed.
Which was what I wanted.
Except for one second there, I thought I’d actually met someone I couldn’t intimidate. The idea had been terrifying, but also . . . what? Intriguing? Tempting? Appealing?
What the hell is wrong with me?
How did this tiny, lemon-scented, puke-colored, insect-eyed woman disarm me so quickly? How did she upend my entire day in mere minutes?
