“Don’t look so happy.” A deep male voice stirs me from my melancholy thoughts, bringing me back to the jewelry counter. My eyes slowly skim up from the counter up into the eyes of an insanely gorgeous, distinguished-looking man with just a few strands of gray touching his sideburns.
“I’m sorry, I—” I’m enamored and can’t help but stammer as I look into his steel-gray eyes—the air leaving my lungs as if someone gave me a good punch to the stomach. I try to take a deep breath, but oxygen isn’t replenishing nearly as fast as it should be.
I didn’t see or hear him approach, and I convince myself that him startling me is the reason for my reaction and not the man himself.
He ignores my sudden inability to breathe, his eyes watch me amusedly, and he rubs his middle finger over his bottom lip. “Scrooge or Grinch?” He asks.
I clear my throat and smooth my blouse down, even though there’s nothing wrong with it. “Excuse me?”
He laughs, and my heart pounds against my chest. “Which one are you?”
I shake my head, not understanding his question, but I play along. “What’s the difference?”
His expression immediately changes from lighthearted to serious. “Come on. Please tell me that I don’t have to explain two classic Christmas stories to you. One’s heart grows—”
“No,” I cut him off. I know the stories, I don’t get why you’re asking me that?” Fuck he is gorgeous. Perfect white teeth, olive skin, his dark hair tinged with gray, with a body fabulously clad in an expensive tailored suit, my guess late-thirties.
I squeeze my thighs together, crossing one heel over the other. My imagination was already running away with thoughts of what this man could do to my body.
“Well, if you haven’t noticed. You’re standing in Christmas ground zero, and you look miserable.”
I feel my face heat. Is he flirting? Of course not, he isn’t flirting. He’s commenting on how miserable I look. I decide to treat this handsome God like any other customer. “Can I help you find something, Sir? Perhaps new diamond earrings for your wife? Or, oh, I know we just got in this fabulous tennis bracelet.”
He leans both elbows on the counter, clasping his hands in front of him as he smiles wickedly. His face is inches from my breasts. Only the short counter separates us. His proximity and my wicked imagination have me practically panting as my panties dampen, desire pooling between my thighs. I wasn’t my usual confident self, but I was sure of one thing, after my shift was over, in the privacy of my room, I would fantasize about him, about this moment. Hell, maybe even a few times.
“Wife? What makes you think I have a wife?”
I cock my head analyzing him. He seems more amused than offended, but I attempt to correct my mistake anyway. “Husband?”
He laughs, and my breath hitches. Why is my body having such a visceral reaction to this man?
“How about we skip the small talk, and I’ll cut right to the chase because the only thing I’m interested in at this counter is the woman behind it.”
I swallow hard. Is this a dream? I press one of my heels into my foot, sending a sharp, searing pain up my leg. Nope, definitely not a dream. “Do you walk around the store using that line until someone takes you up on the offer?” I smile sweetly and place my hands on top of the glass, trying to seem unphased by his antics.
He pushes up off his elbows, a cocky smirk plastered on his face. “Well, now, I’m questioning my approach. Too direct?”
I raise my eyebrow at him. “Married?” Lord knows I can’t go there again.
I look down at my feet. This would be so easy. Too easy, in fact, but I’m not in the mood to play games. No. Right now, all I want is a quick fuck with a good-looking guy whose not married, but this guy is probably the last thing I need right now.
I lean over the counter, my cleavage now entirely on display for him. God, I’m my own worst enemy. What’s one more game?
“Unattached.” I finally respond, smiling seductively, and he returns it, smiling as if he already knew my answer.
“Even better.” He pulls my name tag toward him, pulling my shirt along with it, revealing more of my chest to him. “What time do you get off, Becca?”
“Dinner?” He asks.
Later on, I might regret being this easy, but why go through the formality of dinner when I have no intention of seeing him again.
He nods, releasing my name tag, letting it snap back. His fingers stroke over my cheek, lingering a second before he rises off the counter. “Nine, then. I’ll be waiting, Becca.”
I watch him as he turns to leave, his confident stride and long legs carry him out the door, and my heart flutters as he fades from my line of vision. I know this guy is trouble, there’s no way he isn’t, but the throbbing between my legs doesn’t care one bit.