Sensing a looming presence behind me, I whip around. Bouncing off a hard, large body, I would have fallen, but a steadying hand quickly reaches out and grabs me by the upper arm. I smell tobacco and leather and look up and up and up until I meet that amazing half-smile and amber eyes.
I would have been able to place him based on his scent alone and the electricity racing through my blood at his touch.
Fuck me, but McHottenstein is even hotter outside in the daylight. The early morning sun highlights the blue in his black hair and illuminates his beautiful porcelain skin. I will need new vocabulary words to describe this level of hotness.
What is hotter than the term McHottenstein? McSexy? Super Duper Hottie? Hotalicious?Fuck me,I think.
“Excuse me?” he says with a quirk of an eyebrow, in his slow, formal cadence.
“What did I say out loud?” I flinch, mortified. I hope I wasn’t brainstorming titles of hotness out loud.
“You said, ‘Fuck me.’”
Now I need a word stronger than mortification. Why can’t the earth just open up and swallow me now? Those words falling from his lips are insanely sexy. His inflection, cadence, and accent have officially made those two words the sexiest thing I have ever heard.
This guy is going to be a never-ending source of material for the spank bank. I’m going to need more batteries. And he still hasn’t let go of my arm.
“I’m so sorry. I didnotmean to say that out loud!” I exclaim, blushing furiously. “Sometimes I do that.” I cringe.
He smiles kindly and tucks my white forelock behind my ear with the faintest cool touch. I realize I am still smacked into his chest, every breath brushing my breasts against him.
“Do not be embarrassed. I like a woman who speaks her mind,” he quietly reassures me.
I’m dying. Does he think I just asked him to fuck me? I don’t know what to do at this point other than change the subject. He doesn’t seem put off. Meanwhile, I’m over here falling apart.
“Wh-what are you doing here?” I stammer.
He slides his hand from my upper arm up to the back of my neck and pivots me to stand in line with him, looking at the scene in front of us. The bustling workers are a hive of activity.
“Renovating.”
“Renovating?” I stupidly parrot back, distracted by the weight of his cool, heavy hand on my neck. He turns his head toward me and narrows his eyes slightly, seeming to suppress a chuckle.
“Yes, renovating,” he repeats.
At this point, he must think I am incapable of intelligent conversation or a bumbling imbecile. He firmly guides me by his grip on my neck, moving me out of the way of the construction workers swarming like ants.
Why does the cool weight of his hand feel so comforting? A thrill races through me at this small public claim.
“Did you get a permit for that basement work? I’m a little worried about the foundation,” I say with a nervous glance toward the windows just above the sidewalk.
He slips his hand from my neck to lightly grip my chin between his fingers and directs my face back to his. He looks deep into my eyes and says, “Of course, and don’t worry about the basement. I always make sure to build a sound foundation. The attic will be a good place for my bedroom. I imagine it would light up exquisitely in a storm.”
My mind drifts back to the storm last night and what I did to go back to sleep. A flash of lightning had accompanied my toe-curling orgasm.
He winks at me. He winks! And somehow, it seems like he knows about my late-night activities. But that’s impossible. How the hell could he know?
“I, uh, I’m sure it would. I gotta go,” I say, gesturing with my thumb over my shoulder and stepping back to sever our distracting connection.
“Isn’t your store that way?” he says, pointing in the other direction.
I’m not sure how it’s possible, but I flush even deeper and just bail at this point. There is no salvaging this conversation. Or possibly even my sanity.
I quickly escape to the safety of my store, dropping down onto the stool. I stare at my computer, breathing hard.
Oh, Mylanta. I try to process our interaction, mentally dodging the part where I sounded like an idiot, and realize he is renovating the two buildings next door. Why? Is he flipping them? Is McHottie a realtor? Or, even worse, a competing business?
Oh no, please don’t let it be a competing business. Or something super lame, like a lawyer’s office. I’m going to have to get my shit together and string together a few coherent sentences to figure out what is going on. With the mixed zoning, he could do almost anything with the buildings.
