“I thought I made it clear that I didn't want to talk to you, and technically, you just trespassed. You know that’s against the rules, right?”
He steps forward, and a mix of nutmeg and cedar surrounds me.
“We both know rules have never really been my thing, Brooke.”
The deep rich smoothness of his voice is like a warm breeze over my skin.
I pause, taking a moment to take him in as I think over my response.
I’m not surprised that he’s wearing a pair of navy dress slacks and one of those fitted crew neck shirts that hug his biceps and tapers at his waist. The sleeves are just long enough that the tattoos on his upper right arm barely peek out from the fabric. I love looking at those as much as I love looking at the veins that sweep over his firm forearms.
I hate the way I love looking at this man.
At six foot three, Dutton is tall, built, and beautiful. Through being his sister's best friend and running in the same circle for a while now, I’ve seen him at many kinds of functions—barbeques, birthdays, weddings, the beach— and can confidently say that under his business casual attire is a rock-solid body of a man.
One that could easily pick up my slim five-foot-six frame and have his way with me.
You know, the kind I read about in romance books, especially the darker ones I love to get lost in. Dutton even has the whole lush, dark sandy blonde hair and dark emerald eyes thing going for him to bring that fantasy full circle. I remember a time when his green eyes were brighter, but it’s been years since I’ve seen that kind of light in them.
Don’t get me wrong, a small-town romance always hits, but there is just something about a man who takes what he wants and doesn’t give a fuck how he has to get it.
The difference, red flags in real life actually mean something, and Dutton Richford is the biggest red flag I’ve ever met.
“Maybe you should have thought about that before you walked in here uninvited.”
With that, I turn back for the front of the bakery, giving us some much-needed distance.
“What the hell does that mean?” he asks, hot on my heels.
“It means that I didn't want to talk to you before, so I sure as hell don’t want to talk to you now.”
I pretend he isn’t just standing in the same room with me and go back to cleaning and dancing. I forgo the singing though. I might not care what this man thinks of me, but singing would only provide him with more ammo to tease me with, and we can’t have that.
“You are aware that I can see you, aren’t you?”
I look over my shoulder at him. His stance is commanding with his arms crossed, legs wide, head held high, and those deep eyes settled on my body.
“What? Am I aware that you can see me dancing?”
“Yes.”
The one word sounds a bit strangled.
I like it.
I bite my lip, turn to face him, and sit my ass on the nearest table. How far can I go with this?
Pushing Dutton’s patience is one of my favorite things to do.
“Do you like it?”
He doesn't respond.
“I could dance some more, just for you, if you need that to give me an answer.”
I swear I see his jaw tick, but he remains silent. I roll my eyes and sigh.
“Just say whatever you came here to say so that I can go on with my day without you in it.”
