Chapter Four
Bella
I round the corner of the snack aisle with my arms stacked way higher than they should be. I’d only made a quick dash into the store to pick up the cream Scherri wanted. I didn't bother with a cart or basket, I could carry the cartons in my hands. Until I run slam bang into a solid wall of man meat and Everything goes flying. The cartons, the packages of potato chips I just had to grab. My stomach is growling at me after a snackless long journey. Anyway, don’t the stores line them up so they’re impossible to resist?
All of it hung in the atmosphere for an insta-second before crashing into the ground and splattering like roadkill.
“Oh my god, I am so sorry.”
I drop to the ground, grabbing at the fallen articles while muttering apologies. Although I’m not sure who’s to blame. He crashed into me too. And we were on a blind corner so it’s impossible to know who was traveling fastest. Okay, I was, but he wasn’t exactly on the lookout.
“I knew I shouldn’t have loaded myself up,” I blather.
I hunt out the Kleenex in my purse to wipe off his soiled pants and shoes, forgetting that the spilled cream is seeping into my stockings.
“I piled on some extras because you know how sometimes -”
“No, it was my fault,” he says in a hitch of voice that drags my eyes all the way up his towering frame.
With me down on my knees he seems to loom over me. But Christ the guy is amazingly built. Not in a lurching way, you know, like those jocks that can’t keep their arms at their sides. I travel up over the thick thighs filling a pair of low slung jeans (forcing myself not to stop at the low-slung part because it’s not polite to stare, but what I did notice was impressive). A narrow waist but powerful as a dagger in its litheness. The chest splays out into strong arms, the kind of strong I’d love to feel envelop me, tender in their power. I continue on up and the ugly fluorescent strip light in the ceiling sends a flare across my eyes and his face blurs.
His body lowers in front of me while an electric shock travels up mine. I tip forward to cover up my unusual embarrassment. At the same time he reaches out for my hand to stop me mopping at the spilled liquid. Out heads knock together.
“Sorry. Sorry.” We both apologize at the same time.
Then we laugh together releasing the awkwardness. That is until it swiftly returns when my gaze locks on to his large brown eyes. They’re so dark they seem to disappear deep inside him like unfathomable sinkholes.
“- cream just refuses to stiffen,” I finish off my sentence without intending to. The words emerging from my mouth of their own volition, each one more slowly than the last as the sentence grinds to a filthy halt and my eyelids stretch open in surprise.
He grins at that last one and as the double meaning dawns on me, I feel my cheeks blaze hot.
What an idiot.
First gaping at him like a puffer fish, then blushing like a teenager at a rock star.
I quickly look down to clean up more of the mess. Anything to get busy and cause a distraction from my ridiculous humiliation. Except he still has my hand in his. Grasped around the top at the wrist but it feels so intimate, like he has total control over my body.
“That’s a lot of cream,” he burrs, his voice half barroom croak, half smooth as strong black coffee.
Against my will, my eyes travel back over his body, a sense of knowing seeping through me. My body seems to recognize this other person. Now that he’s at my level, I can get a close up look and he’s just as hot as I first detected. The chest just as broad and solid and comforting without the bulge that indicates the guy has nothing to do but live at the gym flexing his eight-pack.
When I reach his face, I may well have swooned if not for the fact that he’s holding me upright in the force of his grip. His hair is all unkempt, like he’s walked through a tornado. His scruff of beard says he hasn't bothered to shave for days. But damn if that doesn't make him even hotter than the last time I ran into him. That time not quite as literally as this one.
He is simply gorgeous. And wearing a knowing half grin that’s making my heart go skittering. I doubt this guy could even comment on the weather without his features emanating a barrel of sin. Just like the last time I looked at him.
I’ve never forgotten that night.
I doubt I ever will.
And worst of all he doesn't even recognize me.
Why should he?
I don't know whether to be relieved or insulted. Just for a moment I wasn’t sure, but no, that smile hasn’t morphed into words like; “Hey, don’t I -?”.
“It’s not mine,” I mumble, gazing at him still. Like my mind craves the imprint for future recall. “The cream, it’s not mine.”
“Then we won’t cry over the fact that it’s spilled.”
He powers up those awesome thighs to rise to standing, taking me along with him. Luckily, because I don’t have quite the same strength and would have made a total fool of myself grabbing at the stacked shelves to pull up on. He pulls me up too fast. I can’t stop. My free hand goes slamming onto his chest to brake myself from falling into his embrace. Which Satan knows is exactly what I’m yearning to do. He looks down at my hand and the soggy creamy Kleenex scrunched against his black tee.
“Oh god, I’m sorry,” I blurt, dabbing at him, making it worse,
He covers my hand with his. His is so much bigger that mine is like a shell cupped by a rock in comparison. I become mesmerized by the powerful beat of his heart in my hand, the pulse of life strong in him. His eyes capture mine again and he grins, bowling into my heart and making it fly everywhere like skittles.
We stand there frozen, my hand sandwiched between his hand and his heart, staring at each other for what seems like hours. Still he says nothing about meeting before.
Suddenly that certainty enters my head – you know the one, I'm being played. That he pulls this with every lone woman he encounters at night. Perhaps he’s out prowling, looking for women he can assist, or knock flying.
I extract my hand from his trap and he releases me but doesn't make a move to go. That makes me nervous again. I don't know why. I never get nervous. I’m usually known for my capable control. I go to the cold counter to grab more cartons of whipping cream and the guy stands there still, watching me. Being unaccustomed to nervousness, I resort to babbling.
“It’s for my sister,” I repeat. “She wants a fantasy summer theme for her wedding. All the things we seem to have lost these days. I told her, you’re not even twenty five, Sissy, how can you be so nostalgic for old days? The simple life, she said. I think it’s all the old aunties around her, that have come for the wedding, reminding her of the adventures they used to have.”
I stop to take a breath and still he hasn’t moved. The smile is in place and he’s actually listening, no glaze over at all. Holy shit, when was the last time a man actually listened to me. Even on a date he’s looking past my shoulder glassy-eyed, hoping for something more entertaining to happen by.
“The aunties?” he says.
“Yeah, our grandmother had seven sisters,” I say, on a roll now with the captive audience.
The awesome dude walks alongside me as I head for the cashier.
“Wow, I can’t imagine.”
“Right? I can only imagine what that must have been like. I love my sister to bits but if there were six more of her, all with such widely opposing ideals about life, it might be crazy-making. It’s fun to see them all in one place now. All assembled for my sister’s wedding.”
“So you’re here for a wedding? To attend one?” he inquires with genuine interest. Like it’s the most important question he’s ever asked.
“Yeah, an outdoors affair, vintage boho we’re calling it. There’s a canopy of fairy lights strung between the trees and...”
This guy looks like he’s taking notes, he’s so attentive. Perhaps he’s a reporter for a wedding blog. The thought makes me smile. He’s way too masculine and wild. Alpha male mountain man.
I set the cartons on the belt and the cashier looks at me in semi outrage.
“You can’t consume the merchandise before you’ve paid for it,” she snips, her eyes snapping to the tall gorgeous hunk at my shoulder, then flipping her hair over hers.
“I didn’t consume it,” I say, trying not to laugh. Does she think I’m some dairy addict ducking into a store to throw back a couple of pints on the sly? “I spilled it back there, sorry there’s a bit of a mess.” She lets out a long sigh.
“I’ll pay for it of course.”
“No, I’ll pay for it,” the hunk insists.
The bored girl’s eyes have hardly left his face and aren’t about to any time soon, I can tell.
“No need,” I cut in. “It was my fault.”
“The sign clearly says ‘Puh-lease take a basket’,” the flirtatious little tramp drawls.
“Exactly,” I admit, wishing she’d just ring me up so I can get out of here.
“No basket,” the guy shrugs with a grin that would melt solid steel never mind a lonely woman’s big panties.
Shit, I am wearing big panties – driving in a thong is so damn uncomfortable.
Shit, why am I worried about what panties I’m wearing? He’s not likely to be seeing them tonight.
Or ever.