Page 11 of His Haunted Desire
“When you talk, it’s difficult for me to concentrate,” she scolds flatly.
I chuckle. “I need to ask you something very serious, Aurora.”
She’s got a name as beautiful as she is. But she’d probably slap me if I said that to her.
“Yes?” she says reluctantly, looking up at me. She’s on the shorter side, and I find I like her at this angle, eyes wide, staring up at me. It takes my mind to hungry places.
“How many awards have you won for customer service?”
She tsks, averts her gaze, then clips another pin to my suit. “I’ll need to make some measurements now.”
“Something tells me you didn’t like my joke.”
“Maybe I’m not in a joking mood, Mr. Blackwell. I’m sorry if you came to a seamstress for a comedy routine.”
She turns to the counter, giving her a view of the denim hugging her ass. I try not to look too long, but it’s difficult.
She walks behind me. “Shoulders first.”
“Do I need to do anything?” I ask.
“Just try not to move.”
“My command is your wish.”
She meets my gaze in the mirror, and again, there’s that twitch of the lip like she wants to smile.
“Aren’t you going to correct me?” I say. “Because it looks like you want to correct me.”
She ignores me, measuring my sleeves next.
“Did I take a dump on your doorstep without realizing, Aurora?”
“Perhaps I’m not in the mood to be a rich douche’s amusement for the afternoon, Mr. Blackwell.”
She gasps once the words have left her mouth. Her mouth hangs open. I’ve got half a mind to order her to keep it open, because she looks so damn pretty like that, shocked and excited at the same time.
A bell rings.
“That’s my grandma. Excuse me, please.”
“I’m sufficiently amused. I’ll let you go for now.”
Her cheeks turn slightly red as she pouts at me. An Olympic-level pout. I can tell she wants to snap at me, but she holds herself back this time.
Maybe I am a douche, but I’m enjoying myself far too much.
She goes through a small door and up a set of stairs. I run my hand through my dark hair. I don’t know why it’s so enjoyable to get a rise out of this stranger. It’s just that it beats being stressed to hell.
When she doesn’t return after a few minutes, curiosity gets the best of me, and I head for the staircase. I could say hello to Margot as an excuse, but I stop halfway up when I hear their raised, angry voices.
“I know we need the money, Grandma, but he’s looking at me like I’m his servant or something. It’s annoying.”
“I think you’re seeing things that aren’t there, sweetness. He’s only ever been polite to me.”
That’s true. It’s also true that Margot Maren isn’t a young woman with a thick ass and wide hips and a glare that could melt a man’s ice-cold rich-douche’s heart.
“You’re right,” Aurora says after a pause.
