“
Let me get it,” he says, standing much too close for my comfort. It’s downright suffocating.
“Not a chance, darlin’,” I drawl, giving him a dose of his own medicine.
I hand the youngish sales lady my tags and bury my gaze inside my purse in search of my wallet. When I look up, I find a loopy smile on her face and it’s directed at him. The happy bastard smiles right back.
“Are you two done? Can I pay for these, or would you like to go on a date before you ring me up?”
They both turn to stare. She’s cherry red and pushing all the wrong buttons on the register while Dane’s busy scowling at me. I hand her my credit card without taking my eyes off of him.
“Did I do something to you, Stella?”
The thing is, I’m not mad at him. I’m mad at myself. I cannot believe that I allowed myself to fall under his spell. I don’t blame the sales girl either. She never stood a chance under the magnetic force that is Dane Wylder. I fell for it and I’ve been vaccinated against this particular virulent disease. I have Paul Donovan to thank for that.
Turning back to the sales person, I take the receipt she hands me. “I’m sorry,” I murmur. “Hormones––they’re wreaking havoc.”
“Oh, I get the same way when I get my period,” she replies in the sweetest drawl.
“Thanks for your help,” I tell her in an apologetic tone.
With that I walk away from the counter, and the two of them. A second later a big hand grabs a hold of my upper arm. I stop and turn, my expression not a happy one.
“You didn’t answer me?”
“No, Dane. You did nothing. Like I said, it’s the hormones.”
He looks pensive, his sexy lips pursed as he’s mulling this over. “We should get you some ice cream.”
I don’t know whether to laugh, or cry. He genuinely thinks ice cream is the solution to our problem? Then again he doesn’t have a problem.
I’m the one with the urge. I’m the one with the craving. Unless ice cream comes in a flavor called Sweaty Sex With Dane, I don’t want it…and about as smart as jumping out of a plane with no parachute. The ride will be fast and thrilling and most certainly prove painful when I hit bottom.
“What does ice cream have to do with it?”
“Maybe it’ll make you nicer. You know, take the edge off.”
My eyes automatically narrow. “Maybe we need to give each other space.”
“No,” he huffs, arms crossed in front of his broad chest, his shirt straining against the swell of his pecs, expression locked in the determined position.
“No?”
“No. No space. I see what you’re doing here. This is some kinda female mental jujitsu. You say you want space, but you don’t really want it.”
I’m seconds from punching him in the nut sac, which is almost directly in my line of sight. There is something to be said about being short. Or for him being grotesquely tall.
“I…I’m going to…I can’t.” I flee to the cosmetics department in search of the Holy Grail, a flat iron, before I do or say something I’ll regret.
And find one. Thank the Lord. This goes a small way to propping up my mood. I’m almost tempted to purchase two.
”
”
P. Dangelico (Baby Maker (It Takes Two, #1))