Hopefully, he’s not trying to figure out where he knows me from.
Or maybe he’s deciding if I’m completely unhinged.
Which, to be fair, isn’t exactly off the table.
Considering I barreled into him like he was guarding the last pair of Lulus at a Black Friday sale, deranged feels sadly accurate.
I nudge my dark glasses higher on my nose and pray he can’t place me as the seconds stretch.
Three.
Four.
Five.
I blink. He’s still watching me.
His stare isn’t creepy.
No.
It’s so much worse.
The quit-my-life-and-fly-to-Cancún-with-me kind of worse.
Here’s the thing. I’ve been around handsome men. Hell, Pierce Maddox is the poster boy for Hollywood appeal, all lean rockstar swagger and silver-screen genetics. And none of it ever really moved the dial for me.
I thought I was immune.
And yet this living, breathing god in front of me flips a switch I didn’t even know existed. Is there such a thing as a horny switch?
There must be, because heat floods, fast and unforgiving, lighting me up in all the wrong places.
And at the worst possible time.
Finally, I snap, “W-what?”
Wait.
Did I just stutter?
Great. Three years of linguistics coaching down the drain. Along with my career, if I don’t get it together.
He lifts a hand and gestures casually toward the panel.
“The big metal box we’re in doesn’t move unless you press a button.”
Oh. Right.
I jab the button for G, assuming that means ground, then glance back at him.
He doesn’t move. But I catch it. The faintest trace of a smile framed in auburn hair and lickable scruff.
Then he crosses his arms, the motion stretching the flannel tight across shoulders carved from stone.
That poor flannel shirt is fighting for its life.
Wait a minute.
