My sigh puffed between the rungs. Nope. As if she felt guilty for her own faerie-tale good fortune, Maureen seemed compelled to find a similar match for me. But Prince Charmings were in short supply—if they even existed at all. Her husband, Phil, certainly seemed like the real thing, but who was I to know? Was the ideal man gallant and brave? A rescuer? A provider? Or just a decent human being who didn’t fart on purpose or cheat on his wife?
Hence the problem. You can’t find your soulmate if you can’t recognize him when you meet him. Besides, as odd as I was, my other half would be a strange man, indeed. Ergo, I didn’t need match-making. I needed to be alone, with my daughter, so I’d hopefully not screw up her life.
Jaw clenched, I stretched for a large box labeled “Sweaters, Silk/Cotton.” My daughter would have a happy life, damn it. The ladder shifted, but my mind was on more important things. Like making sure Eileen’s college fund wouldn’t need to be used for therapy. How was I supposed to be a good example if I—
“Be cautious.”
Startled, I twisted backwards to find the stalker looking up at me. “Sir!” I admonished, “This is a ladies’ dressing area.” I waited, but he didn’t even have the courtesy to look embarrassed. Who did he think he was, following me in here? Bet he’d back off with a kick at that pretty head. He was tall. The angle was about right . . .
His eyes widened, and he stepped back. “You should be careful . . . ?”
Sheesh. What was with me today? I wasn’t usually violent, even in the privacy of my own head. “I’m fine. Thank you.” I struggled to sound more professional, “Was there something you needed help with?”
He scowled, his gaze sweeping from one end of the shelves to the other, and I held in a sigh. Maybe he was afraid of heights. I climbed one more rung, so my head was level with the top shelf and I could get a grip on the bulky container. From his lack of response, he must’ve gone out to Maureen. Why in the world had she let him back here, anyway? I leaned to the right and braced my hip against the ladder’s frame. We were a few weeks into spring, but nights were still chilly. She’d agree to a flash sale on sweaters.
Pulling them to me, I heard a faint squeal near my ear and watched as a support bracket slowly peeled away from the shelf. Before I could process quite what that meant for me—with head and shoulders a dozen feet in the air—the ladder’s right wheel slipped off the rail, and I fell.
The box hit and its lid cracked open, spewing sweaters and tissue paper across the floor—but I’d been stopped mid-air. Strong hands had thwarted gravity, and I found myself peering downward into crystalline gray eyes blinking through my hair. One of the stalker’s hands was stretched upward, splayed under my right armpit; and the other was planted, palm flat, over my left breast. Nice.
My legs were hopelessly tangled in the tilted rungs, and I had no choice but to be gracious as he pulled my torso against his face and freed me. Just perfect. Now I was indebted to the stalker. At least I was blessed with small boobs. Not much of a thrill for him there. My face burned from a volatile mix of anger, gratitude, embarrassment—and the pain of a wrenched ankle. I was lucky he hadn’t gone away, yet supremely irritated that he’d ignored my hints and witnessed my klutziness. And why were my hands still clutching his shoulders?
I staggered back and straightened my clothes. Damn, his body was hot. My palms prickled and my blouse felt iron-crisped from his hands.
“Lucky you were standing there.” I attempted to bring a little sincerity to my voice as I looked up, “Thank you . . . ” Way the hell up.
The guy was a giant. At least seven feet tall, but with proportions so perfect they made his height less noticeable—until he was towering over me. And his facial features . . . I hadn’t allowed myself to look closely before, but they were perfect, too. Oddly perfect. No laugh lines, no stray eyebrow hairs, not even beard stubble. He looked as smooth and beautiful as a baby, but with the strong features of a man. He even had silken, wavy, pale gold hair like you usually only see on toddlers. All together, he was perfect. Ancient-Olympian-with-a-laurel-wreath perfect. The mental picture made me even more uncomfortable.
“So . . . thanks again,” I said into the silence.
He stepped back. “The screws there . . . ” he gestured toward the damaged track, “ . . . are different.” His hand dropped, and his gaze swept across my shoulders and down to my feet. “You are injured.”
“I’m fine.”
“Your leg.”
“Is just fine, thank you.” I breathed into the pain and settled my weight evenly.
“I . . . I did not want you to be injured.”
His awkward sympathy caught me off-guard, and a quiver rippled in my stomach just as a tiny light burst into the space between us. The same lava-orange I’d seen earlier, it sparked and pulsed, demanding attention. What do you want?
“What do you see?”
“Hmm? Oh. Your sweater looks—”
“See something you like . . . ?” cooed the last voice I wanted to hear.
Sweeping the curtains aside, Maureen’s dramatic entrance made it wretchedly obvious that she’d orchestrated the whole scenario. Well, probably not the part where I almost smacked the floor with my face, but certainly all the rest.
“What happened?!”
“Ladder slipped. He caught me.” I offered him a rueful shrug, but he was frowning at Maureen. Now I just felt sorry for the poor guy. I was crazier than usual from lack of sleep, and he’d probably only followed me in here because she’d shoved him in my direction.
