Page 2 of Sterling Stone

Tall, solid man blocking a slightly smaller woman in a hotel hallway.

Suddenly, I’m aware of my size and the awkwardness of simply staring at her. I clear my throat and slip my hands into my pockets as a subtle means to convey I don’t intend her any harm. Her eyes follow the movement. I notice her shoulders relax a bit.

“Well . . . I’ll let you . . .” I step to the left, intending to allow her to pass. Only she steps to her right, and we freeze in place again.

She chews at the corner of her lip, like she’s fighting a smile. It’s a losing battle, as her bright smile stands out vividly against the rich luster of her lips.

The corner of my mouth ticks upward in response.

As she holds the closed book against her chest now, trim dark brown polished nails tap against the hardcover, which faces outward. I arch a brow at the title containing Daddy and Dom in it.

“Uhm . . . have a good night.” I try again to excuse myself, intending to step right this time.

Only she steps to her left.

And at the same time, we both move forward, nearly bumping into one another again.

Her book hits the floor with a resounding thud.

“Let me . . .” I start, bending at the waist to retrieve it.

“I got it . . .” she says, following my lead.

My fingers reach the book first, and I stand too quickly, thus knocking our heads together. This time, we both fall back, landing on our asses.

“Ow,” she says, rubbing at her jaw.

“Jesus. Are you alright?” I immediately ask, reaching only briefly at the back of my head before scrambling forward to inspect her chin. Slender, long fingers stroke over the hard edge of her jaw, which she moves side to side.

“Let me look,” I whisper, going into the protective mode conditioned by my employment.

Yet something deeper strikes within me. A visceral need to know I haven’t hurt her.

With me on my hands and knees in my suit, and her on her backside, knees bent upward, her long skirt shielding her legs, I’m practically in her face. The soft scent of honeysuckle and citrus tickles my nose. I take in the fullness of her lips. Then, I force myself to focus on her chin.

Her eyes widen, and I realize how close our faces are. Slowly, I lean back. “I’ve been told I have a thick head.”

Her mouth curls again, in a slow, enticing way. Her eyes practically dance.

I point at the book which lies between us. “I’m going in,” I teasingly warn.

She chuckles softly, the sound like the bright metallic jingle of a tambourine. I reach for the book that has fallen open, face down, and use my finger to bookmark the spot, then hold out my other hand for her. As I stand, she takes my extended palm, and that drizzle of warmth felt through her shirt only seconds ago becomes a crackle of heat spreading across my hand.

When we stand, I flip the book to the open page, eyes catching on a phrase.

“And so the blue alien led her down the dark passage, heading toward a destiny she didn’t know she’d eventually crave,” I read aloud, before snapping the book closed and handing it back to her, suddenly realizing how close we stand. Less than the length of a book.

Her fingertips brush mine as she takes the book from me. Those pleasant pinpricks spread over my skin again.

“Your husband must get jealous of you reading that.” I nod toward the book, speaking before I consider what I’ve said. The statement comes out of left field, sounding rusty, almost clunky, before I realize I’m curious if she has a husband.

Am I flirting with her? I’m definitely sensing some chemistry at work. Crackles and sparks. Heat and a rush of desire I haven’t felt in a long, long time.

“Only my book boyfriend ever gets jealous . . . when I move on to a new book.”

She tips the book forward, playfully knocking the edge against my chest.

“Easy there. That’s some weapon you have in your hand.” I smile wider to assure her I’m joking.