Because my life is apparently a joke, and the universe has a terrible sense of humor.
“I—you—coffee—”Words. Use words, Willa. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he says, and he’s smiling. That devastating, crooked smile that probably makes women across three states lose their minds. All the years I’ve mooned over his poster or news bits, I never realized he had dueling dimples when he smiles. “Are you okay?”
“Fine. I’m fine. Totally fine.”
I am the opposite of fine. I’m covered in coffee, my breakfast is on the floor, and I’m being held upright by the hottest man I’ve ever seen in real life.
“Your coffee doesn’t think so,” he says, nodding at the brown puddle spreading across the floor and my splattered coat.
“I'd better get that,” I say at the same time he says, “Let me help.”
We both look down at the same time and make to move forward and?—
THUNK
Our heads collide with a sound that echoes through the entire store.
“Ow, fuck,” I gasp, pressing my hand to my forehead. His own hand is pressed to the side of his cheek by his eye.
“Shit, I’m sorry.” Then his hands are on me again, tilting my face up so he can see the damage. “Let me look.”
“I’m fine,” I lie, even though I’m pretty sure I just gave myself a concussion. His stare is as intense as his person. I feel flayed open with his direct focus and attention.
A girl could get used to being looked at like that.
“You’re not fine. You’re bleeding.”
“I’m what?” I croak through a suddenly dry throat.
He pulls out a bandana from his back pocket—because of course he has a bandana—and presses it gently to my forehead. “Just a small cut. Nothing serious.”
The pin. Funny, when she gave it to me, she’d said she knew it would bring me luck. I wonder if this is what she had in mind.
But the problem isn’t the cut. The problem is how close he is. The problem is the way his scent—leather and bergamot and pure Alpha—is making my head swim. God, he smells so good.
An involuntary shudder floats over my skin with an epicenter where his hands hold my cheek. My lips part, and I can’t stop the hitch in my breathing.
The problem is the way his thumb is stroking my cheekbone while his other hand cups the back of my head, and I’m pretty sure this is what dying feels like.
“There,” he says softly. “Not so bad.”
I should step back. Should put distance between us. Should do literally anything except stand here staring at him like I’ve forgotten how to function.
“Your shirt,” I manage finally, noticing the coffee stain spreading across his chest. “I ruined your shirt.”
“It’s just a shirt.” But he looks down anyway, and that’s when he seems to realize his hand is still on my face.
He pulls back slightly, using the bandana to wipe away some coffee that splashed onto my lower jaw. His fingers brush against my collarbone and the small triangle of exposed skin at the neck of my coat as he tries to dab at the coffee.
We both look down at the same time as his bare fingers touch my skin, and electricity shoots to every nerve in my body before landing between my legs with a sudden pulsing. Good god, he is about ten times too much Alpha.
It’s like I’m stuck in quicksand, and can only watch as I go up in flames. His eyes heat, and the intensity in those frosty blue eyes is enough to make my skin itch.
His large hand slowly spreads across my upper chest, lightly resting there, but it feels like a lead weight is pressing into me. I realize he’s feeling my heartbeat.
Time stops until there is nothing but him and me, and the sudden urge to whimper and curl into his chest leaves me breathless.
