I can’t stop myself from staring even though every drop of blood in my entire being surges to my face. Yeah, my face. I’m going with that and ignoring the tingles elsewhere. I’m not thinking about how I used to fantasize about this very man when I was with this very man and how he’d work out without a shirt on, and his abs would be all sweaty. The rest of him would be too, but it was his abs, in particular, that would always do me in—his chiseled eight pack covered in droplets of sweat. Okay, whatever. I have weird turn-ons.
I’m also trying very hard not to stare at his body but trying not to stare means staring because he’s filling out his dress shirt and slacks in a delicious cupcake sort of way. Not in a soft and squishy way, but just that he’s that tasty. I know his pale blue dress shirt is covering muscles—a lot of them. Like bunches, round ones, long ones, and striated, veiny ones.
My eyes lower to his belt against my better judgment, but thank goodness his belt is still above his waistline.
“Why?” he chokes out. I think he means why am I staring, but then he clarifies. “Why are you wearing that?”
“Ahhh!” I squeal as I tug frantically at the bracelet.
My fingers are as useless and stunned as my brain, but thankfully, I have enough practice that habit carries me through. Finally, the clasp gives, so I rush to the back, grab the purple bag, and stuff the bracelet inside. I leave the extra bill for the number of hours I spent cleaning it sitting on the back counter. Then, with a deep breath, I march back out front, drop the bag in the hand of the man who once owned the heart currently beating in my chest like a herd of raging monkeys all vying for a single banana, and clench my teeth together to stop a thousand inappropriate things from springing out.
Or laughter. Because now I can’t stop thinking about my heart being the shape of a banana. And monkeys trying to steal it.
“It was sent here for cleaning. I was just making sure I didn’t miss anything. Anyway, uh, no charge.”
Slate gray eyes narrow at me while heavy, dark brows the same hue as his wild, tousled hair draw together. A single line appears on his broad, strong forehead.
“Um, yeah. It’s just…god. I can’t believe this belongs to you. I, uh, have another appointment coming right away, though, so if you just want to…yeah. I have to go.” I point somewhere behind me. By go, I mean get anywhere but here.
To get away from him, I’d even be willing to go out through the back door of the store right now. I could hide in the bushes back there and watch until he leaves. Then, once he leaves, I’ll walk back around the front and lock the door, so I can have a meltdown in private because what the actual fackshit facknuts fackerwacker is happening right now?
I can’t help it. I keep staring. Toren has always carried himself with a certain…well…something I don’t have. I don’t want to say confidence because I might not be made of muscle, have the world’s greatest curves, perfect breasts, or a nice round fanny, I might even be a little bit too awkwardly tall for a woman, and if my hair weren’t long, it would be stringy and flat because it’s so fine, and I don’t have chiseled cheekbones or sexy plump lips, but I’m confident enough. My hair is jet black, which is all-natural, and my skin is kind of on the pale side, giving me an authentic unnatural look that some people would no doubt term as gothic if I helped it along with makeup, but that’s okay with me.
Holy gravy with a side of biscuits, I’m rambling—thought rambling.
We’re both standing there stunned when the lights flicker again. I grind my teeth and stare upward like the ceiling is going to cave in. There’s a great bang upstairs, then a thump, thump, thump, which is dull and barely discernable, but I know what it is. I need to get to the back stairs, to the door I don’t keep locked since it goes up to my apartment.
Suddenly, there’s a clomp, clomp, clomp.
Oh goodness, for the love of monkeys and banana hearts, please, just no.
But there they are. While I’m frozen to the floor like an ice statue, Milo and Charlotte walk down.
“Sorry,” Charlotte says as soon as she sees me. She must not realize my face is contorted into a million signals of “please take Milo back upstairs right freaking now!!!” because she continues to tell me how they were playing a game of don’t touch the floor. She explains how there were a few instances when they fell, which caused the bangs, then she apologizes for the disruption and adds that they might have smashed the coffee table and put a hole through the flat-screen TV all in one shot.