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“Get back to work. Girls these days.” She giggles and has no idea what she’s putting me through.
Frustrated, I return to the front of the store and my display.
Is it him? Would he say such stuff on his resume? Maybe the email was a code for me to recognize it’s him. And he sure seemed cocky at the concert.
Something is bothering me about this, though. Maybe how blatant it seems to be? How simple? I thought he gave off more of a complicated vibe. Darker. Wilder.
And that’s where I have to remind myself—again—that I don’t really know the guy. And that even if he is hot, he may be shit at selling books. Won’t that be crappy? Working with him could be uneasy as hell, especially if I get a girl-boner every time I see him. And what about Joel?
Now I’m kinda hoping it’s not him.
This is driving me up the wall. Hey, didn’t I decide he hasn’t applied? A fantasy he will remain, and now I’ll write that scene and I—
The door chimes as it opens, letting in a gust of wind and a tall man dressed in a dark blue Tee and running shorts. Running shoes, shapely calves, a broad chest, a wide grin and bright blue eyes…
Ohmygod.
He’s back.
***
“Hello,” he says, and I nod dumbly at Joel Kingsley, or J-One, as he enters and fills the whole damn shop with his hawtness.
I mean, presence.
Despite my righteous anger last time about his comment, I have trouble gathering my wits as he strides confidently into the shop and directs that megawatt grin right at me.
“You’re the girl who helped me the last time, right?” God, that melted-chocolate voice and that dimple…
“The nerdy chick,” I say helpfully, pushing my glasses up my nose, and freeze.
Oops.
His brows go up. “Right.”
Disengage. Disengage. Shields down.
“Uh, I remember you, too.” My brain engages, but I must have chosen the wrong program because my mouth opens, and words spew out that should have stayed in, locked up with a high-security protocol. “You’re the bananas guy. Banana book guy. The guy who…” Crap, shoot me now. “The book. Recipe book.”
Finally he nods, and my mouth stops flapping. “Yeah. The cookbook for my friend.”
Cookbook. Right. There was a word for it, a word I know when my brain isn’t busy misfiring due to hot guy proximity alerts going off all over the place.
The book you got for your hunky friend, Jethro, whom I met at the concert and now can’t stop thinking about. Between the two of you, I’m getting sexual whiplash. Can’t decide who is hotter.
Shouldn’t have to.
“Did he enjoy it?” I ask, and he’s staring at me.
“Huh…” He blinks, pushing dark hair out of his eyes, and dear God, his scruff is a shade darker today, and a golden suntan on his face makes his blue eyes brighter. “Enjoy what?”
What, indeed. The scene I’ve been brainstorming for the past two days flashes through my synapses like an electric storm, burning out what connections were still live.
“Enjoy you. Your gift. Enjoy your…” Don’t say it, don’t say it. “Your banana gift. Oh God, I mean your cookbook gift.”
Why did I say it?
I would like to be buried under this spot, please, with a sign that says, “Here lies Candy who could never put her mouth to good use. But given the chance, she would have given good head.”
