If I hadn’t resembled an upside-down mop wearing a sweater, leggings, and boots, I would have flaunted my physique. I struggled to properly match said sweater, leggings, and boots.
Back to book guy. Did I mention he seemed tall? I couldn’t tell for sure from his seated position, but he had to spread his legs beneath the table to accommodate my legs without us bumping knees.
“Mmm …” I hummed my utmost appreciation for the exquisite bun as I shook my head. “No. I don’t come here often because I don’t live here. But if I did…” I rolled my eyes back in my head “…I’d be here every single day. This is so good.”
His smirk greeted me when I recovered from my food orgasm. “Where do you live?”
“Colorado.”
“I see. Did you come to Vancouver just for the buns and bubble tea?”
I breathed a guileless laugh. “Subconsciously, I think I did.”
He continued to inspect me with bright eyes while maintaining a pleasant smile.
When my pulse picked up, because that was the effect he had on me, I cleared my throat and slid my attention to the window. “I’m here with my best friend and her fiancé. He has business meetings. It’s a free trip for me, so that’s cool. Right? And Lila, my friend, likes the company.” I blotted my mouth, most likely covered in powdered sugar.
“Where are your friends? They’re missing out on hot buns.”
“They needed some alone time.” I smirked. “So I ventured out. I’m Evelyn, by the way.”
“Ronin,” he said just before taking another sip of his coffee. Large hands. He had to be tall.
I had a thing for tall guys with slight accents who knew how to read.
“Do you live here?” I stirred my tea with the wide stainless-steel straw.
“Just for one more day. I’ve accepted a job … in Aspen.”
“Shut up.” I narrowed my eyes. “You can’t be serious.”
“Ski patrol.”
“Really?” I cut another bite of the bun with my fork and knife. It would have been easier to pick it up and eat it with my hands, but … handsome stranger. “I live in Aspen.”
“Small world.”
I tilted my head, searching for warning signs—a flicker of danger in his eyes or the twitch of a wolfish grin. My love of horror movies seeped into my real life, distorting my judgment and imparting irrational fear into random thoughts.
“So what do you do in Aspen?” he asked with a slight accent. French? I couldn’t tell, but I wanted him to keep talking, even if he was a stalker.
“I sell guns. And own them. A lot of them. And I’m a really good shot.” See? Who says that? Me, horror movie lover … as I imagined his face covered in paint like The Joker or Pennywise.
Both of his eyebrows arched. “Okay. I didn’t see that coming.”
I chewed a bite of the bun, studying him. He didn’t look like a serial killer. Wasn’t that the most common sign of one? Since killers didn’t have a look, the most notorious ones were typically normal looking—sometimes even good looking. They excelled at disarming unsuspecting women.
“I’m not a gun person, so I don’t know any intelligent questions to ask about your job. Except maybe … how did you get into guns?”
I scratched my cheek and grinned with a wrinkled nose. “I don’t sell guns. I’m just testing stranger danger. Do you like clowns?”
A pleasant grin slid up his face. “Clowns are fine. I suppose.” He chuckled.
Wrong answer. But everyone was entitled to their opinion.
“I own a bath and body shop. I make all of my own products. I’m a chemist who really wanted to be an artist. So, this combines both worlds.”
“But do you own a gun?”
My lips twisted, and my eyes narrowed. “It’s Colorado. The probability of me owning a gun is high. Let’s just leave it at that.”
“Fair enough.”
I didn’t own a gun. Never had. Wouldn’t have had the first clue how to use one.
“So … ski patrol?”
“Yes. It’s what I’ve been doing for years.” Definitely a French accent. What was it with guys and accents?
“Your accent …” I tapped my finger against my bottom lip.
He took a sip of his coffee. “My father is from Chamonix, France. My mother’s family is from Malaysia, but she was born in the United States, as was I. We moved to France when I was one, and that’s where I grew up. My father is … was an Olympic skier.”
I blinked several times, pausing my straw at my lips. “Wow! I’m utterly boring compared to you. Bet you’re glad your coffee’s almost gone, so you can go hang out with more worldly people.”
Ronin chuckled—deep and smooth. “You make soap. Tell me more.”
“You don’t have to sound interested. We can talk about the weather. I hear rain is expected over the next few days.”
He drummed his fingers on the table. “Bar soap? Liquid soap?”