Page 3 of Gourd Enough To Eat
Not because he looked good without a shirt, or because his other assets bulged as he finished carving up his currentartwork. That took a significant amount of talent as well as a steady, gentle hand. Even I could see that.
Some of the larger displays nearest the window that I loitered near looked like pure lace around the edges. He’d placed lights behind and even inside some to illuminate the thinnest layers as well as the sugar encrusted pastry creations nestled inside. Tiny creatures of the woodlands featured there: squirrels, robins, a spotted deer. Even a wild turkey. And those weren't guesses. The depiction in pastry was clear, his stunning art work surrounding the mouth-watering dessert just as delectable.
And then there was the man himself.
Bulging kind of everywhere, covered in powdered sugar, the occasional fleck of paint from his alternative creation, his dark eyes focussed on the work in his hands.
And if I hadn’t already had a bit of a hand fetish…welp, I sure as all get out did by now.
Long fingered, rough and calloused and all things both gentle and firm.Swoon me sideways and pass me a gourd carving cowboy artist pastry chef, pretty please.
Clearly, this was the perfect man to ask to change my tire, once I stopped perving on him.
I blinked, but the shop was empty.
Damnit, I missed my chance.
But there he was, dressed—well, dressed. As in, wearing a shirt. A long sleeved, black Henley, done up to the neck except for those top two buttons that were left open. Somehow, being dressed was all the more sexier on him.
What did you expect, Cadance? That he’d head back to his dude ranch wearing an apron and jeans?
Maybe my ovaries had hoped that was the case, but my logical brain—that appeared to have gone on hiatus the moment he appeared in the middle of the kitchen like an oversized, cowboy wraith.
Gone was the gourd-perv-worthy chef of moments before, when I'd vague out over carving hands and bulging biceps. Okay, so I starved for male specimens to ogle. Which, naturally, was why I was in this mess to begin with. You’d think that was enough to cure me of over active ovaries to start with, but apparently not.
My mouth opened as Mr tall, dark and Gourdy strode toward the door, keys in hand, where I’d been waiting on the other side all night. I did the only logical thing I could think of in that moment.
I ran.
And hid near the side of the building where mine adjoined his. It wasn’t like I’d been practicing my speech for the past twenty minutes in my head or anything like that while I loitered out the front of his ship like a stalker instead of knocking, waxing and asking for help on the mostly deserted—okay, completely deserted— street front.
Nope. I acted like a complete stalker, unsure if I liked his display better, or him. The retail manager in me adored the display. The one hundred percent female in me appreciated the man. Could I just love both? Who knew. Instead, I cowered in the tiny space between buildings, thinking how stupid this whole scenario was.
I should go back up my stairs to my brand new rental, lock myself in, and deal with the vandalism in the morning. I was sure the locals would have a damn fine and logical reason why a knife was implanted into my tire. The distraction might cost me a day’s trade but hey, maybe I could run my wax and nail service from the street front and use it to drum up business where I’d parked earlier in the afternoon instead of running appointments as a door to door service?—
An oversized hand folded around my shoulder, yanked me from my hiding place, and a serrated knife crushed mywindpipe to a mere thread of breathing space. Dark eyes I barely recognized from the gourd patisserie fixed on mine in an unyielding stare.
“You’ve got three seconds to tell me why you’re out here,” he rasped, digging the blade against my throat.
I swore flesh parted and life blood drizzled like frosting over my skin.
The hulk of a man bore his weight down on me. Actually, he kind of towered. My distant view from outside his window didn’t do the enormity of this man, in all his glory, any form of justice. Any pithy words I wanted to speak in my defence of my midnight perving habits came out in a rush of breath and part of a squeak.
Holy hells, I hope he can change a tire after this.
And hot on the heels after that thought: that knife handle does not match the one jammed into my truck wheel.
At least my logical brain was still on its game while the rest of me was in freeze-prey mode.
My pathetic little mouse sound slipped between us like a whisper. A whisper that echoed along the otherwise silent street while my mountain man cowboy glared at me with some serious intent in his eyes.
Who the hell hurt this man, and what did I have to do to make it better?
His intense gaze sharpened, and with that focus the man I thought I recognized returned.
“What the hell were you doing out the front of my shop at this time of night, glitter bomb?” he seethed.
Ah, okay. So maybe he got grumpy after midnight. I wondered what would happen if I added water.
