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Also, did I need a reminder that this guy has been pining after Ellen Davenport, who’s pretty as a picture, the queen of the ball, since forever? Nope, I didn’t. Who would?
Nobody ever figured out why she never went out with him, but he sure is still trying! He only came here hoping to find her, maybe chat her up.
Ugh.
“Hey.” He shoves his phone in his pocket and turns back to me. He lifts a thick, dark brow. “Wanna walk me to the cash register and ring this one up for me?”
“Um, I should stay here.” I wave at the shelves. “These babies need a lot of maintenance.”
Now his other brow goes up—and oh shit, what am I doing? Who wouldn’t want to walk JK to the register and ring up whatever he wants?
“Right.” He lingers a moment longer, rubbing his chin, and my gaze keeps straying to the taut biceps bulging in his arm. “I’ll be on my way, then.”
Because Ellen wasn’t here.
“Have we met before?” he asks before he turns to go, and I’m sorely tempted to inform him about how long I’ve been observing him from near and far at college, of the long nights spent with my friends talking about him and his roommate, about my blog…
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Know what? Nope.
“I don’t think we have,” I reply quickly.
“My mistake then.” But his voice is smooth, deep. Unrepentant.
Or maybe just polite and uninterested.
He turns to go and I want to follow him. Or hide behind the shelves. Or scream.
This is not how I imagined my meeting with Joel Kingsley would go.
Okay, you know what else? Forget about that blog post. Forget about all this. I’ll just pretend this day never happened. I busy myself with a display, try to appear busy, anyway, while he chats up Donna at the counter.
Though I do snap a pic of his amazing ass as he walks out of the shop, the banana book in his hand, his dark hair long enough to brush the back of his corded neck.
Nerdy. He called me nerdy.
I’ll show you nerdy. I’m more than you can handle, baby. I’m a sex bomb.
I hate him.
No, I don’t. I’m so confused.
Just goes to show: handsome men are best watched and lusted over from a distance.
***
“Whatcha doing?” my roommate Brylee asks, wandering into the living room of our small apartment, rubbing her ginger hair on a white, fluffy towel, the rest of her clad in a sexy little number.
Brylee and I couldn’t be any different.
Did you guess?
“Blog.” I delete the line I’d written and start again. My latest post got me hundreds of thousands of views, and happy comments. I am a blog goddess, as it turns out. Girls love reading about my imaginary adventures with my two fantasy boyfriends. I just hope to God nobody, and especially not said boyfriends, ever finds out.
I reread what I wrote, frowning. He gave me a smoldering look as I handed him the book about bananas…
“Bananas?” Brylee wrinkles her tiny nose, until it looks like a wrinkled white grape. It does, I swear. Those white seedless ones.
