I blow out a breath.
Shoot.
Then I smile.
2
“Where are the blasted Oreos?” I say loudly enough to get his attention. My hands plant on my hips (just like his did earlier) as I check then re-check the shelves. “Usually, they’re next to the Nutter Butters,” I tell the strawberries in my cart. It’s sad that my friends are either produce or my family.
“You missed out,” says a deep male voice behind me. “So good, right? They’re my favorite. I mix up how I eat them. The first bite, I nibble, then the next one I take my time, separate the wafer from the white cream, and lick it off.”
I realize two things at once. One, he said lick, which is gross, and, two, he isn’t flirting with me, not when his voice screams boredom.
Fine. I don’t want him to flirt with me.
Nana likes to say, Serena, you don’t like to start trouble, yet somehow it’s always there when you arrive. Might get that as a tattoo, but first, a long sigh comes from my chest as I prepare to annoy Mr. Hot Pants enough to say son of a nutcracker. The fighter inside of me, the one who’s been hurt and trampled by another pretty boy, is roaring to rip him apart, to be cold as ice and let him know I am unaffected by his hot guy aura, but the other side of me is pissed I’m wearing a coffee-stained, holey Four Dragons band shirt and baggy camo pants that make me look like I’m ready for a deer hunt. I admit, lately my sense of style has gone downhill, slammed into some rocks, and rolled right off a cliff.
My thick hair has a slight frizz to it (thank you, humidity) and is scraped back in an unflattering low ponytail. My vented straw cowboy hat is old and worn, though rakish and a bit sexy in a former life. In my early days at Waylon, I wore it with a little red bikini and heeled flip-flops as I sunned at the lake with my sorority sisters. Now, it just covers bedhead. My oversized glasses are smudged from bumping my index finger into them, and there’s still a pillow crease on my cheek from my late nap.
So. Honestly, I don’t care. The day I start caring about what some jock thinks about my appearance is the day I quit. I’ve learned the hard way that the only person I should ever try to impress is me. My days of craving the attention of some womanizer are over!
I set my phone to record video. As surreptitiously as possible, I cant it in his direction as I turn. Visions of my ten-year-old Highlander tuned up with new tires dance in my head.
From my five-four height, I look up at him.
Well.
There’s no need to charm this guy. His girls are tall. I am not.
This close, about six feet apart, his beauty is pretty much a physical assault to my senses, rich and heady, vibrating with intense masculinity. He’s breathtakingly beautiful, that chiseled face, the divine body, all with an air of smoldering sexiness.
Should be illegal to be that attractive.
I check my heart rate: not even a skip. I’m entirely unaffected.
At some point, he’s moved his cap, and it’s on backward, small tufts of brown, almost blond hair shooting from the adjustable band on his forehead. His cheekbones flash under the fluorescent lights, and his bad-boy stubble is thick and dark. I wonder if he has to shave every day to keep that shadow at bay. Framed by thick curly lashes, his eyes are a turbulent turquoise, an ocean of color. They’re serene, yet hinting at a tendency to be stormy. Interesting. He seemed lackadaisical earlier, not a ripple or wave in sight, but here I sense a man whose edges are frayed. The writer in me smells discontent.
Aw, is it hard to be surrounded by pretty girls who are vying for you?
His nose is a blade, straight and Romanesque, and his neck isn’t brawny or thick like some footballers, but strong, the hollows sculpted and molded as if those of a statue in a museum. He reminds me of an erotic Michelangelo’s David. And his chest—ugh, man, why don’t you button that up? I can almost see nip! My weakness is tattoos, and his dance over his chest, enticing me. Maybe if I just touched that one little rose—
Stop, Serena.
I keep my eyes on his face, refusing to feast.
He flicks his gaze at me in an uninterested way. Nope, not a pretty girl, his attitude insinuates. He turns his attention to the shelf.
I watch him for longer than is polite, letting him feel the weight of my scrutiny then giving up when he doesn’t notice. I settle for counting the twenty packages of Oreos in his cart. Pig.
He darts his eyes back at me with a questioning glance.
Oh, oh! He was the last one to speak and he’s waiting for me to gush over him!
My index finger adjusts my white glasses. “Did you know it takes 59 minutes to bake an Oreo?”
“Mmm, fascinating.” He reaches around me to grab a package of Nutter Butters.
Just what I expected—I don’t register in his world.
I grab a Nutter Butter package—he won’t get all of those—and my arm brushes against his. Not one tingle.
“Each Oreo wafer is baked for exactly 290.6 seconds at a temperature of 400 degrees Fahrenheit on the top and 300 below,” I say. “That’s very precise cooking.”
“Um, yeah.” He checks the watch on his wrist, an expensive diving one, then looks around me, probably searching for his harem. On his other wrist is a wide leather cuff with a glittering quartz stone in the center. It looks worn and
