She stayed in the car a moment. She could see the color of his eyes even from where she sat. They were, and she could say this truthfully, bluer than the sky, which surely proved he did indeed have superpowers.
And then she got out, and shut the door with some effort, because it liked to stick. And then she actually had to throw her hip into it. Which really spoiled her entrance.
She hovered by her car as if it were a guard dog.
She saw him straighten, and register who she was with distinct pleasure.
“Well,” was all he said, finally.
“Good morning,” was what she said.
And then that was all either of them said for a long, ridiculous moment.
He said thoughtfully, “Forgive me, but I was just thinking that the only thing better than one of you is two of you. You’d make my day if you told me you had a twin.”
Olympic-caliber flirt, indeed.
“There are actually five of us. So if you see one of us around town and we don’t say hi, that’s the reason.”
That had come out more tersely than she’d intended.
But he didn’t even flinch. He was studying her with an expression akin to a YouTube video she’d seen of a Doberman attempting to befriend a cat who was having none of it. Mildly puzzled but absolutely confident his charm would win the day if he could just figure out where to poke his nose.
It made her feel churlish.
Her churlishness was in direct proportion to how alarmingly, circuits-floodingly attractive he was. She could easily get caught in an undertow of testosterone if she wasn’t careful. And these days she was always careful.
He was wearing snug jeans and a black T-shirt, and his biceps, like everything else about him, were works of art: brown, hard, and big, and an intriguing tattoo vanished up into one of the sleeves. The shirt clung to his shoulders and was just a little loose at that narrow waist, which, she thought, left a girl plenty of room to get her hands up in there.
“We haven’t formally met. I’m John Tennessee McCord,”he said, as if there were a possibility she didn’t actually know.
Given that all of her senses rioted merely by virtue of proximity, his presence was paradoxically calming. He was probably accustomed to mute and staring women. Possibly even accustomed to snappish little women. Once again, she got the sense that nothing could surprise this guy, because he’d seen everything, and he could handle all of it.
He held out his hand.
“You’re the talk of the town, Mr.McCord. I’m Britt Langley.” She didn’t take his hand. Yet.
“Ah, the ‘enigmatic’ Britt Langley. A pleasure to meet you officially. Call me J. T.”
And then she finally put her hand in his, because she could hardly avoid it. She was a grown woman, after all.
He held on to it briefly, just a little longer than necessary. As if he knew exactly how squirrelly she was, or how electric he was.
His hand was warm and a little rough and it engulfed hers. Absurdly, it felt both reassuring and terrifying. As if he were pulling her up a cliff she was about to tumble off.
One that he’d pushed her over.
He let it go.
But not before every cell in her body had risen from some sort of slumber and was zinging like a limb shaken awake after she’d slept all night on it.
He studied her a moment.
Oddly, she could have sworn he wasn’t entirely unmoved, either.
There was a refreshing honesty in this quiet, unabashed appraisal. It was very clear he found her attractive and wasn’t the least bit worried about disguising it. And he knew damn well she found him attractive. He clearly assumed she could cope.
And then the bastard smiled. Slowly. As if two of them had spoken all of those thoughts aloud.