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“Welcome to Evergreen Art. We…”
I trail off as I look at the man who just walked through the doors. I find my breath has frozen in my chest. He’s tall, built, and solid. Saying that, I mean he’s solid. He’s the kind of man that sums up every daydream, fantasy, and erotic thought a woman would ever have in her lifetime. I’m no stranger to hot men. My best friend’s husband Antonio is so hot that you would think he’d leave a trail of ashes wherever he walks. Zervas is more contained and pretty, but definitely just as hot. Then, there’s Marco. He’s his own brand of hot, the type that probably can never be duplicated or matched. He oozes testosterone through every pore in his body and it just gets more deadly as he gets older. His brand of hot should be outlawed. The same could be said for his brothers, they all have it—although Marco is still unmatched.
That said, the guy that walked through the door just now is a whole different kind of hot. He’s also nothing like I’ve seen in the gallery before. He’s wearing a pair of worn jeans that look like they were made to cover his body. They’re a faded denim which has turned white in the best of areas. He’s got a black leather vest with assorted patches on it. There’s a top one that has white embossed lettering that reads, Titans of Hell. Then, under that declares he’s a president. He's got a gray thermal Henley on that is stretched over his body in a way that even with the vest hiding what is underneath, you can tell it’s stretched over his massive frame as if it has been kissed by an angel. Perfection. He’s got beautiful chestnut hair that gleams and shines, making me jealous. It’s long and falls down past his shoulders. It’s also styled in a way that looks like a seventies rock god and, sweet Jesus, the man works it. He is literal beauty, and it takes everything I have not to sigh when I look at him. Actually, I am pretty sure I do sigh, but at least I manage to do it under my breath, so I don’t embarrass myself in a pile of drool at his motorcycle boots.
“We?” he questions, his voice gravelly as if he has a three pack a day habit, but the sound is so sexy that the word skitters across my skin and sends tingling sparks down my spine. Oh God…
“I’m sorry?”
His lips twitch. He’s got a beard and mustache, but it’s groomed in such a way that you can still see his full, tempting lips and I struggle not to get hypnotized by them. Damn. No one has accomplished it yet, but could he be the guy that could make me eventually say, “Marco, who,”?
Probably not, but a girl could dream.
“You were welcoming me to the gallery,” he murmurs, his eyes twinkling.
“Oh, right. Welcome,” I respond, and shit, my voice sound breathy.
His lip twitch turns into a full smile.
“Thanks,” he says, still watching me closely.
“Can I help you?” I ask, trying to remember that I’m working and not a blathering idiot.
“I’m thinking you definitely could.”
His words make my cheeks heat. “I…uh could?”
“Definitely.”
Oh, shit. His tone and gaze definitely clue even my addled brain into the fact that he’s flirting with me.
“Are you, uh…looking for art?”
“Not going to lie,” he murmurs, still looking at me in a way that makes me feel warm all over. “I was driving by outside and saw you through the window and decided to come in and say hi.”
Damn. That’s kind of hot. Like really hot. There’s every chance in the world that it’s just a line, but I find I don’t care if he does this kind of thing a hundred times a day. Right now, he’s doing it to me, and I like it a lot.
“Well,” I respond with a settling breath, “I kind of get paid to sell art, so unless you’re here to scope out the art and maybe purchase, I’m not sure I can keep talking.”
“Are you going to show me what you have?” he asks, and I mentally have to remind myself that he’s talking about art.
“What uh… kind of art do you like?”
“What kind of art?” he asks, as if the question is totally foreign to him.
“Yes. I mean, what kind of pictures and artwork do you have hanging in your home?”
He tilts his head as he looks at me. “Does the Harley Davidson flag that’s hanging above my bed count?”
“A Harley…” I stop a startled laugh bursts from my lips. “I don’t think so,” I add when I finally get myself under control.
“Then, I guess you could say I’m wide open.”
“We have a local artist that we’re highlighting this weekend that you might like.”
