I furrowed my brow. “Who’s this for, then?”
“Someone I love,” he said easily.
That sounded serious. I held my tongue against the urge to find out if this was an unrequited crush, an affair partner, or something else. For all I knew, this could be for a relative. Based on how many people threw themselves at him, I doubted it.
He put his finger on the perfume’s trigger, and I shivered with anticipation.
“Would you prefer I didn’t?” he asked.
Didn’t what? Love someone? Or spray the sample on me?
“It’s fine. I'm...ticklish.” I squirmed.
Angel smiled softly. “I’ll hold you firmer then,” he said, brushing his thumb across my veins.
I tried to suppress any kind of reaction: a blush, a flinch, or a breathy gasp that’d only encourage him to keep flustering me.
Why was he so comfortable in my personal space, anyway?
Maybe, for him, this was just as impersonal as taking vitals. But the delicate way he held my wrist made my heart rate skyrocket.
He sprayed the bottle six inches from my skin.
Mist hung in the air for a second before drifting down like tiny scented feathers.
Goosebumps pricked across my arms. Honey, lavender, and something pretty I couldn’t name briefly tickled my nose.
“That’s nice,” I said.
He gingerly lifted my wrist to take a sniff. “Hmm, it’s fine. But let’s try another. Something stronger.”
I sighed in resignation as he browsed the display, my wrist still in his grasp. Would anything satisfy him?
He exchanged the mild perfume for a bottle shaped like a woman’s torso with vaguely smoothed-off boobs reminiscent of a censored Greek statue. It wasn’t like either of us should be affected by a nude bust. We’d seen our share of human bodies in our studies. But the way his thumb slid over the bottle’s curves compressed my chest. Incrementally, I steadied my breathing. But then he sprayed the contents of the lady-bottle on me.
A thick, fruity musk clung to my arm and clogged up my lungs.
Coughing, I waved to clear the air. That perfume was an asthma attack waiting to happen.
Angel chuckled. “Too bold or too much?”
“N-no. It’s a wonderful scent. I just inhaled wrong.” I wheezed, glancing over my shoulder.
Thankfully, Meg was too busy redistributing the abandoned tangle of thongs to notice my sales faux-pas.
The Closette sold lovely fragrances. But after two years of scrubs and bleach, I’d gotten used to wearing comfy clothes and trying not to smell anything.
Heavy boots clomped to my right. A sharp-jawed mall security guard with shoulder-length dark hair and a trim beard scanned the inside of the store. Was he looking for something in particular or just getting ideas for Valentine’s gifts? The stern knit of his brow indicated he was looking for trouble. Or a troublemaker.
We made eye contact. I tensed with an awkward wave to say, ‘Hi. I’m innocent.’
He smirked and tipped his head as if to say, ‘I figured,’ then continued on his patrol.
I bet that security guard wouldn’t subject me to a sniff test.
Angel made a low growl, and a sudden spray chilled my neck.
“Ah, Angel,” I hissed, turning to him.
