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Classic obsession. I don’t even know the guy. You know he touched your cheek when you were being awkward. Plus, he put his arm around you for no reason.
I stretch my back and drop my marble back into the bowl. It makes a satisfying thunk.
I smooth a palm over the top of my head, tuck the wispy stands of my stray hairs behind my ears. I go to my jewelry box, atop my dresser, and pull out my chunky Michael Kors men’s watch, slide it on my arm, and check the time. Hmmm. It’s only 5:20. I go into the kitchen and splash some absinthe into my Pontarlier glass. While I’ll admit my newfound absinthe obsession is slightly ridiculous, given I don’t drink enough to actually get drunk or even buzzed most of the time, and that I drink it neat, without the sugar and water pour, that doesn’t stop me from taking the glass to my couch and stretching out with my TV remove in hand.
After a few minutes flipping channels, I call Jamie, who regales me with a tale of one of her chart-topping clients peeing in a bush outside the Grand Ole Opry.
“Do I want to know if he was drunk, or just raised in a barn?”
“He’d been drinking Southern Comfort. From the bottle.”
I snort. “Well, that’s one way to excuse it.”
“Totally.” I hear her pop her lips, which probably means she’s wearing that overbearing strawberry lip gloss she likes so much. “So is he still coming over?” she asks.
“Yep. At six.”
“Are you hyperventilating like the fangirl you are?”
“No.” I glower at the phone. Since Jamie’s going to be annoying and make fun of me when I’m feeling sensitive and nervous, I decide to go into my office and watch cam footage while we talk. I spend the next ten minutes listening to her talk about Niccolo, and how the movie he’s working on is over-budget. When she’s finished, she clucks. “I hear your little mouse clicks.”
Whoops. “Guilty as charged. No sign of my woodland creeper.”
“That’s good. I told Nicci you were scared and you wanted his help.”
“You did not.”
“Yeah. I did. He said he’ll get Casper—” Niccolo’s creepy older brother, who runs a security company in Denver— “to send you a body guard.”
I stand up and stretch. “He better not have.” I slip my watch off and leave it on my work desk, go fill a bottle of water, and wander out onto my tiny porch to wait for Barrett. Or Bear.
I interrupt Jamie to ask, “Barrett or Bear? Which one should I call him?”
“What?”
“He told me people sometimes call him Bear.”
I can see her perfectly plucked eyebrows raise, in my mind’s eye. “Well then, you have to call him Bear. C’mon. That’s an easy one.”
“I’m not sure if I can without laughing.”
“What’s wrong with laughing?”
“Oop, I think I hear leaves crunching! Gotta go,” I hiss.
“Have fun.”
I hang up so quickly, my butterfingers manage to turn on the phone’s noise maker. I’m still fumbling to turn t
hat off when his dark, tall form becomes visible through the leafless trees.
As soon as he comes into sight, my stomach lurches roller-coaster hard. I can taste the absinthe in the back of my throat. I swallow reflexively, just to be sure my throat can still manage the maneuver. Because it’s knotting up as he moves lithely toward me.
ELEVEN
Gwenna
There’s something gloriously sexy about watching a man approach. I have time to admire all my favorite things about him: the curly hair, the striking eyes and luscious lips, the huge shoulders and chest that taper to those sexy hips. His legs are long, I notice, as he steps over brush and a fallen log.
