Page 3 of All We Need

“Sorry,Mom,”Imutter.

“Sorry,Mommy,”Patrickmocks.

I fix him with afuck offglare. “Ididn’t even call her ‘Mommy.’Getyour ears checked, old man.Don’teven ge?—”

Something shimmers in my peripheral, distracting me.Followingthe flash of light,Ifind the source of my distraction.

A watch.

The watch hasn’t left me speechless, though.It’sthe person it’s attached to.

I’m not shallow.Shit,Idon’t even have a type.Somewould call me a playboy—my brothers do.ButIdon’t jerk women around.Imake my intentions very clear.Ifthey’re interested in having some fun while in town,I’mmore than happy to oblige.Irespect them—unless they ask me not to.I’llcook them breakfast.Letthem use my shower.Payfor their cab.Wishthem all the best.

Both parties know exactly what a night together means.

The fair is the perfect place to find women who are here temporarily.IfI’mhonest, it’s been months sinceI’vehad the time or energy to pursue anyone.I’veexchanged a couple of numbers and bought a few drinks, but that’s as far as it went.

Suddenly,I’mvery energized.

I take in the inky-black hair falling in thick, shiny spirals.Porcelainskin, smooth like velvet.Eventhe curve of her upper lip as she pouts at the table in deep thought is enticing, andI’veonly seen her side profile so far.Thelong, beige duster coat she’s wearing hides her figure, but she’s at least half a foot shorter than my six two.

I’m on the move beforeIknow whatI’mdoing, and catchDexmutter, “Doeshe ever take a day off?”

Not today, buddy.BecauseIwant to see this little showstopper face on.

Maybe it’ll put an end to this dry spell.

The fair isn’t open yet, but already the smell of candied apples, cinnamon treats, and chili fills the air.Rightnow,I’mgrateful for the lack of crowds.Myeyes stay glued to the stranger asIstride across the gravel path, lined on both sides with small tents and marquees.

WhenI’mten feet away,Isee what grabbed her attention.Smallcanvases are propped upright on the table, each paintedwith a picturesque scenery.Deeporanges, pale blues, vibrant greens.They’rebeautiful, but whenI’mclose enough to get a good look at this woman, they’re quickly forgotten.

Shit.Shereally is gorgeous.

Right, art.Ican chat nonsense about paintings for a few minutes, impress her with my “knowledge,”ask her out for dinner, and then…

Clearing my throat, becauseI’mnot one to creep up on women,Isidle up next to her. “Prettygood, huh?”

She doesn’t turn, just nods slowly with a low hum.

“I’m more of an oil paint kinda guy.It’sdaring.Unique.”Squintingat the table,Ithink of something artsy-fartsy to say. “Ilove when an artist uses this…brushstroke.Areyou a collector?”

Her head tilts a fraction. “You’rea fan of thegrisailletechnique?”

I don’t know what the fuck she said, butIlike the way she said it.

Her sultry voice drips over me like warm wax.She’dmake the prettiest of noises,I’mcertain.

Focus,Booth.Putyour dick away.

What was that word she said again?

“Huge fan.Thegrizzlyis very contemporary.”Nailedit.

“Is that so?”Finally, she twists her body to look at me.Apair of striking gray eyes—like rings of mercury—pin me in place.There’ssomething familiar about the shade, butI’malready scanning the rest of her face.Astraight nose slopes down to two rosy-pink lips.Thick, coal-black lashes and brows frame her piercing orbs, and there isn’t a mark on her flawless skin.Herface is cut with sharp lines, matching the scrutinizing gaze she levels me with.

I’m a little intimidated by the way she crosses her arms over her chest with a quirked brow; intimidatedandoddly turnedon.I’mman enough to sayI’mdisappointed her eyes don’t rake down my body like most women’s would.

“Tell me more.”Shewaves a graceful hand between us.

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