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Ugh, he’s one ofthem. Painfully handsome, richer than sin and probably has an entitlement level to match. I deal with his type a lot in this job.
“What happened?” The man steps toward me, heavy brows creased. He has dark hair and darker eyes, like glittering chips of black that are somehow intimidating and sexy at the same time. Which isnotmy usual definition of sexy, mind you.
I like guys who are more like golden retrievers. Fun, good-natured, a bit silly. Loveable. This guy, however, is a Doberman.
Maybe your comparison of men to dogs is why you’re still single.
“It’s pasta sauce. There was an incident.” If I was any more of a mess right now, I’d be a Jackson Pollock painting.
Of course, the “incident” had occurred because I wasn’t paying attention to my surroundings. Anthony McCreeperson was texting me, trying to set up a date so we could talk about my mother’s “great idea.”
Kill. Me. Now.
If I didn’t need this job so badly, I would go straight home to drown myself in cheap wine and pizza with extra cheese, and never leave my house again. But there are certain things about being an adult that suck balls... One of them is how reliant we are on money. Therefore, I need to stay and put on a happy face while I try to ignore the source of my humiliation texting me all night long.
Don’t you mean thesauceof your humiliation?
Even when I’m falling in a heap, I can find a pun.
“What exactlywasthe incident?” the gorgeous man asks.
“A too-tight Tupperware lid and a sous chef with greasy hands.”
His lip twitches. “Right.”
“So yes, I’m hiding in a supply cupboard so I can change. Two more seconds and you would have seen more than my bra.”
Great, now he’s probably imagining me naked.Why do you have to open your big mouth all the time, Ava?
For some reason, the thought of my naked body running through his head makes me tingle like a cluster of fizzy champagne bubbles is tracking through my veins. I’m far too aware of the pressure of the clothes on my skin. Of the heat in his gaze.
Now that I look at him a little closer, I think my initial assessment was slightly off. This man isn’t painfully handsome. He’s not even obnoxiously handsome. It’s like he found the damn handsome scale and snapped it over one muscular thigh.
He has the kind of lips made for kissing. Full, wickedly curved like the lines on a fancy sports car. Tanned, olive skin and strong hands that I imagine skimming up the inside of my thighs.
Yeah, obnoxiously handsome doesn’t evenstartto cover it.
“So that’s me,” I say. My voice has taken on that high-pitched quality that happens whenever I get wound up. And right now, staring at possibly the single hottest man on planet Earth, I am most definitely wound up. “What’s your story?”
He raises an eyebrow. “My story?”
“The reason you’realsohiding in a closet.”
The man straightens. He’s more than a head and a half taller than me and I have to crane my neck to meet his gaze. “I’m not hiding.”
“You hang out in supply closets for fun?”
“I was about to practice my speech. This is the only place I could get some bloody peace and quiet and...” His eyes rake over me, burning a path from my lips to the shirtfront bunched in my fist, down over the unflattering black pants my boss forces us to wear. “And look how that turned out.”
“Not great, huh?”
His lip twitches again, like it can’t quite figure out if it wants to smile or smirk. He ends up somewhere in the middle, which shouldn’t make my stomach twist and flip, but itdefinitelydoes.
This is the kind of chemistry I was talking about earlier today. Looking at this man makes me ache. Everywhere. He makes my mind spin and my hands itch and my pulse pound. Looking at Anthony McCreeperson makes me want to run in the opposite direction.
“No, not great,” he replies drily. “Or maybe it’s very great, depending on your definition.”
Uh, boobs. I’m barely keeping the double-Ds in check right now. Honestly, I know some women have always wanted a bigger bust but I can say firsthand that they are a pain, both literally and figuratively.
