That flutter in the chest, the rise of goosebumps along my arms.
It’s not fear.
I don’t scare.
It’s something else.
The math of a moment gone strange.
Someone’s watching me.
I glance up.
Slow. Controlled.
Not dramatic. Not wide-eyed.
Just a tilt of the chin.
Like I’m searching for the sale sign on the back wall.
But I know.
I know.
Someone’s here.
Watching me.
Studying me while I pick panties for another man.
I find him in my periphery.
He’s standing near the jeans rack.
Dark hair. Sharp jaw.
Big shoulders. Broad chest.
Not ridiculous in that models underwear way.
But God.
Intense.
And his hands.
Oh.
Oh fuck.
One holds a hanger, turning a pair of dark wash jeans over.
Checking durability, not style.
Thick knuckles. Scarred. A thin white line across the back of his left hand.
Not trendy. Not ripped. Practical. Solid.
