Jinxed!

her, she heard him call out, “I am not going to wear that goofy robe!”

6

EVAN COULDN’T BELIEVE he was wearing the goofy robe.

He looked down at himself and grimaced at the sight of his bare legs and feet beneath the robe’s hem. Good God. If Paul saw him wearing this getup, his friend would laugh himself into a seizure. Actually, anyone who saw him wearing this would laugh.

Why the hell couldn’t Lacey have dressed her stupid mannequin in something a normal guy would wear? Like maybe shorts and a polo shirt? He had to grudgingly admit that the goofy robe was a huge improvement over his cold, wet, sticky clothes, which had started to chafe, but still. And as long as he already felt like an ass, he figured what the hell and had donned the matching boxers-but only because his own boxer briefs had been so damn wet and uncomfortable.

Well, he’d just keep the freakin’ robe belted shut and pretend he was wearing his own clothes. Pretend he was home in his own apartment. Pretend he was with anyone other than Lacey.

Lacey. Whose skin felt like satin and tasted like sugar-sprinkled flowers. Lacey, whose potent kiss had fired through his system like a shot of straight whiskey burning its way down to an empty stomach. Lacey, who was right now walking toward him from the back of the store, her hourglass curves encased in the mannequin’s skimpy red dress in a way that literally knocked the air from his lungs.

Jesus. The woman not only knew how to kiss, she knew how to move. Her hips undulated with a slow, sexy, mesmerizing roll that made him feel like one of those cartoon characters whose eyeballs boinged out on springs. He’d never seen her wear anything other than her work outfit of black pants and white top. If he had a vote, he’d cast it in favor of her wearing that dress every damn day. It made her look incredible. And downright edible. The bright cherry-red perfectly set off her creamy skin and contrasted with the mass of damp, glossy midnight curls falling just shy of her shoulders. She looked like the perfect embodiment of his every fantasy.

She headed behind the counter and reached for a coffeepot. Her gaze flicked over him and her lips twitched. “Decided not to grow pruney, I see.”

“Don’t you dare laugh.”

“I won’t laugh if you won’t.” She grimaced, then tugged on the short hem of the dress while performing some sort of all-over shimmy that had him stirring against the satin boxers. “This dress doesn’t exactly fit. My mannequin is a few sizes smaller than me. Thank God the material is stretchy.”

Yeah. God definitely needed to be thanked for the way that dress fit her. “Looks good to me. Perfect, in fact.”

Surprise flickered in her eyes. “Another compliment? I’m stunned. But in keeping with this apparent detente, I’ll offer a compliment in return. That robe has never looked so good.”

The unmistakable appreciation in her eyes told him she wasn’t kidding, and his pulse rate kicked up another couple of notches. Apparently some women didn’t mind men dressed in goofy robes decorated with pink hearts. Go figure. “Thank you. So…truce?”

“Truce.” Her smile flashed. “At least until the auto service people arrive. Then all bets are off. You want regular or decaf?”

“Regular. I don’t want to fall asleep on the drive home. Need help?”

“Thanks, but I think I can handle a pot of coffee.”

In an effort to concentrate on something other than her, he turned his attention to the eclectic mix of collages and photographs decorating the walls while she ground fresh beans, filling the air with the rich scent of coffee. How had she made a mismatched collection work together so well? The collages featured themes as varied as desserts and classic movies, and the photographs displayed everything from flowers to skyscrapers. The effect was vivid and eye-catching. Just as she was. And it occurred to him that the store was a perfect reflection of her.

“Those are from my mother’s garden,” she said when he paused in front of a whitewashed framed photo depicting a crystal vase overflowing with puffy pale pink blooms.

“I’ve seen these flowers before. What are they?”

“Peonies. I gave my mom that plant for Mother’s Day several years ago. They’re my favorite flower and my favorite scent.”

Ah. Finally a name to put to the subtle floral fragrance that clung to her skin. “Did you take this picture?”

“Yes. I had a lot of wall space to cover in here and couldn’t afford anything fancy, so I grabbed my trusty camera and voila-instant artwork. I also made all the collages.”

His eyebrows shot up in surprise. “They’re really good.”

“Thanks. Making them is very relaxing. I put on some music, enjoy a glass of wine and let my imagination flow.”

He pointed toward a turquoise-framed collage of beach scenes on the wall behind her. “That’s what I find relaxing. Being near the beach.”

“Hey, we might want to videotape this moment because it appears we actually agree on something. I call the beach my tranquil place. The sound of the ocean, the salty breezes, the sand between my toes…” She breathed out a sigh. “Someday I hope to buy a home right on the beach.”

“Same here. Where I can sit on my balcony and enjoy the view of the ocean with my morning coffee.”

“And my after-dinner coffee.” Her smile bloomed, creasing those sexy dimples into her cheeks and any relaxation he’d achieved over the last few minutes was shot to hell. “If I had a balcony that overlooked the ocean, I’d stay out there all day. Every day. I’d probably want to sleep out there.”

“Again we agree,” he murmured, instantly imagining her curled against him as they lay beneath the stars, surrounded by the gentle crash of waves washing on the shore.

“Wow. Two agreements in a row. Who’da thought?”

“Not me.” Yet it was becoming clearer with each passing minute that there was more to this woman than just killer curves, a defiant attitude and a propensity to annoy him. He nodded toward another collage, this one of puppies, and he couldn’t help but grin. “This one’s great. You have a dog?”

She shook her head. “Had one growing up. A golden Lab named Lucky. I’d love to have one now, but there’s a No Pets rule in my apartment building.”

He approached the counter and watched her fill two thick ceramic mugs with fresh brew. “My dog’s part golden Lab, at least I think she is. Based on her size, I think the other part is St. Bernard.”

She looked up from her pouring. “You have a dog?”

“A big, sloppy, lovable four-year-old who drowns everyone she meets with wet kisses.”

“You somehow don’t strike me as the big, sloppy dog type.”

“Guess I’m just full of surprises.”

Their eyes met. “I guess so,” she said softly. “What’s your dog’s name?”

“Sasha. I adopted her six months ago when I went with Paul to a shelter just north of L.A. because he wanted to adopt a dog. Sasha and I took one look at each other and it was love at first sight. Only problem is the language barrier.”

“Sorry?”

“The family who used to own Sasha only spoke Russian. Dog doesn’t understand a word of English.”

She stared at him for several seconds, then laughed. “You’re kidding.”

“I kid you not. And my Russian doesn’t go much beyond caviar and vodka.”

She shook her head and chuckled. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“Me, neither. So if you happen to know any handy Russian commands such as sit, heel, stay or don’t eat my flip-flops, let me know.”

She snickered. “Sasha eats your flip-flops?”

“Eats probably isn’t the right way to describe it. It’s more like she gnaws them to death. But just my flip-flops. Luckily she doesn’t seem to like dress shoes or sneakers.”