Page 7 of Better Not Pout
“Can I help you?” he murmurs roughly.
Oh God. Every single syllable that falls from his mouth is like warm, coated whiskey, sliding along my skin in a caress that I should not feel in the pit of my stomach, but somehow, I do.
I realize that I’m standing there gaping at him as if he didn’t just ask me a question. My cheeks flame, burning a path down my neck, and I’m suddenly feeling incredibly stupid for accidentally standing here just gawking at him.
I blame that, and the fact that I’m so taken off guard by his hotness, as well as my mind’s correlation to that damn letter, for what comes out of my mouth next.
“Did you steal my letter?”
Immediately, I want to kick myself forthatbeing my response. Jesus.
Did I seriously justblurtthat out?
Rosalie, you freakin’ idiot.
His thick, dark brows pinch while he makes his way over to where I’m standing. With each step closer, I feel the flutter in my stomach tightening.
“Sorry, your…letter?” he asks, that deep baritone dropping even lower, the thick, heavy soles of his work boots thudding across the floor before he comes to a stop in front of me.
“I…” I start, but trail off and clear my throat, trying to get it together. I think my brain is just blanking, a combination of how insanely hot this man is and because hehasto be the culprit. New guy on the block, and suddenly, our Santa mailbox has been raided for the first time ever? Or at least the first time that I’m aware of. Because Iknowthat we put those letters in there. We’ve been doing these letters since Grams was a kid, and now…
The math on this is not mathing.
“Yes, my letter. The mailbox between our buildings. Did you take any letters out of it?”
He peers over at me for longer than what feels socially acceptable, gaze dipping down my body, doing a slow, unhurried perusal before his gaze meets mine again. “Not in the habit of stealing other people’s mail, darlin’.”
Before I can say something back, his brow lifts. “And who are you again? Didn’t catch your name when you were accusing me of theft. That or the reason why you’re inmybar.”
three
. . .
Wells
Dream Man, She Wrote
The woman standingin the middle of the construction zone that’s soon going to be my bar looks like she’s seen a ghost.
Either that or she’s already second-guessing the few words that have come out of her mouth in the short time she’s been standing here.
I guess there’s a first time for everything. This being the very first time a woman’s accused me of a crime before she’s even introduced herself.
But of all the shit that’s gone wrong with opening this place up, being verbally accosted by the gorgeous, curvy woman in front of me is pretty low on my list of complaints.
Because fuck, is shegorgeous.
Truthfully, gorgeous doesn’t even come close to what this woman is, and for a second, it catches me off guard.
Even more so that she’s tripping and stumbling over her words, her cheeks the same shade of pink as her plump, rosy lips, which are slightly turned down in a frown. Her slightly wavy, long dark hair is tucked behind her ears, strands that remind me of dark coffee, nearly black, shining in the glow of the new lights we’re installing. All while she currently stares back at me with a flame burning bright behind her eyes.
Damn, she really thinks that I stole her letter.
That makes my lips pull into a shit-eating grin, and her eyes narrow before she opens her mouth to smart back, “Yes, well, I don’t usually introduce myself to…delinquents.”
My best friend, Collin, snickers loudly from across the room, and I cut my eyes at him, watching as he raises his hands in protest and turns back toward the crew he’s supposed to be overseeing instead of eavesdropping on a conversation that doesn’t involve him.
Asshole.
