A half hour later, the store is empty and I’m bored again. Crouched behind the counter, I attempt to restock our recycled-material bags. They’re slippery as hell, and just when I have the last stack tucked away, they avalanche onto the floor for the third time.

“Damnit.”

A shadow falls over me as someone leans across the counter. “Everything all right down there?”

Deep, amused voice.

I shove fruitlessly at the bags. “Hi! Yes, just a stocking mishap. Be right with you!”

Finally admitting defeat, I stand up to greet my customer. “Welcome to Veritas. What brings you—” My chest deflates, taking the rest of my words on an exhale.

The stranger from the kiosk stands in front of me. Only he isn’t exactly a stranger.

Hands tucked in the pockets of his slacks, he wears the same smirk he had last night while watching me reject Greasy John’s advances. In the light of day, the blue of his eyes is startlingly vivid. Almost turquoise.

He stands absolutely still and relaxed, exuding the easy confidence of a man who’s sure of his place in the world. Not arrogance—deeper. Born not of external trappings like wealth or a handsome face, but of inner discipline. There’s something else, too. Something powerful behind his eyes that I’m unused to seeing directed at me. It makes me flush. Makes my lips part on a shaky breath.

The stranger blinks. His mouth curls the tiniest bit, and I suddenly know what that something is. A predatory intent simmers behind his amused blue eyes. His approach, his confidence—they are the alpha tendencies of a virile male.

This man dominates the world around him.

“Do you carry soap?” he asks, the mirth in his eyes flaring.

Does he not recognize me?

What does my hair look like right now?

I pull together my frayed edges, gluing them into place with my years of customer service experience.

“Yes, absolutely,” I say, walking quickly around the counter.

I gesture for him to follow me the paltry six steps to our soap display, while out of the corner of my eye, I study his face for flaws. I find none. Even the little laugh lines beside his eyes are sexy.

Though he wears a suit like a second skin, I decide he’d look more at home in jeans and a t-shirt bent over a car engine. Or even khaki shorts and an unbuttoned white shirt, standing on a yacht somewhere being all rich and famous.

Is he famous? I don’t recognize him, but it’s not like I follow the revolving door of celebrities in the city.

“Hello?” His concerned voice brings a hot wave of mortification to my face.

Clearing my throat, I do my best to pretend I wasn’t just ogling him. “Is the soap for body or home?”

His shoulder touches mine as he leans toward the display, the heavier fabric of his suit whispering against my cotton t-shirt. The contact makes my stomach clench.

“Body,” he answers, glancing at me with a small smile.

Did he touch me on purpose?

Is he flirting with me?

Oceanic eyes travel my face, no doubt delighting in my schoolgirl blush. How old is this guy? He doesn’t look that much older than me, but there’s something about him… a stillness, a depth that speaks to maturity.

I want to tell him to stop staring.

I want to tear his pants off.

Focus, Eden.

I stare pointedly at our soap display. “Sorry. I, uhh… didn’t get much sleep last night. Do you have a preference for fragrance or treatment? Our bestseller for men is this bar, Tuxedo. It’s a mix of clary sage, cedar, bergamot—”

“Sounds great, I’ll take it.”

Reaching past me, he grabs two bars of soap. His chest grazes my bare arm; driven by primal instinct, I take a greedy pull of his scent. Freshness with an underlay of earth and spice. In that aroma I imagine the hard heat of his body, the pressure of his fingers on my hips.

My spine tingles. My knees go weak.

On a biological level, I realize my visceral reaction to him simply means my pheromones like his pheromones. As in really, really like. Unfortunately for me, my life experience thus far has proven that trusting those instincts is tantamount to self-destruction. Men like this are my weakness.

Men like this are my downfall.

An unwelcome thought floats up from the recesses of my mind, from the prison it’s festered in the past two years. My former professor’s face, stern and flushed. Lean, corded arms braced to either side of my head. He’d told me I was special. Beautiful. The smartest, most promising student to grace his classroom in a decade. He’d said a lot of things—like he was leaving his wife. That we had a future. That he loved me.

As repugnant as the reminder is, it’s the impetus I need to resist the threat of this stranger. Because my professor’s magnetism doesn’t hold a candle to that possessed by this man.

I want what this man offers with the very air he breathes, and I’m terrified of what that means.