Million Dollar Devil (Million Dollar #1)(21)

He’s looking down at his phone, and I pretend I’m not that into him when I suddenly recognize the phone. The beat-up old cell phone with the cracked screen.

I jerk back to look at his face as he lifts his head.

What the . . .

It’s HIM. Oh god. In daylight he looks more . . . dangerous.

Edible.

Scrumptious.

He smiles a dimpled, bearded smile as he pushes off the wall.

As though he knows his effect on me.

“Hey,” I blurt out. “I didn’t . . . know you’d be here.”

I stumble on the sidewalk edge, and he quickens his steps, but thankfully, I recover before he has to come save me. Trying to save face, I breeze toward the elevator and push my floor number. “You haven’t cashed the check?”

I shoot him a sidelong glance.

My tummy is tumbling.

Nervous because . . . um, the back-seat-of-the-cab thing?

The delicious-hands-on-me thing?

All that. Six-feet-plus thing.

Yeah.

“I’ll get to it. Don’t worry. Have a good day?” he asks as he runs his gaze over my business suit.

“Yes. You? Beat anyone up?”

“No.” His lips curve.

“So it’s . . .” I’m unsure. “Not a good day?”

“Oh, it’s a good day.”

I fight the overwhelming urge to grab his face and plant a happy kiss on his jaw. He smiles down at me.

My angel’s working overtime to give me time to introduce my dad to my guy.

And he is here now, so we can get started . . .

Definitely a good day. “Do you want dinner? I was going to order in.”

He nods. We go upstairs to my apartment. As hungry as I am, the OCD part of me can’t stop looking at that forest of hair on his face and picturing what’s underneath. After all the selling I did to my dad, I hope it’s not hiding a massive birthmark or a double chin.

“You know what? We have time to shave you before dinner.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” I set my bag down and extend my hand. “Come on. And I can get to know the real James Rowan while I shave you.”

“This wasn’t what I was planning when I stopped by here. Ya know?”

“Oh, I know what you were planning. But that’s not good for business, and we’re in business,” I say, taking his hand and pulling him into my bathroom.

I pull up the seat of my vanity and pat it. “Sit here.”

He’s reluctant before he drops down on the seat, his body engulfing it. “I like my beard,” he says, rubbing his chin in the mirror. “You’d like it, too, if you just got me between your legs.”

I give him a look.

He gives me an innocent shrug. “I don’t get complaints. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Thank you for that bit of info,” I say stiffly. “But we’re going less Paul Bunyan with our launch and more Michael Bublé.”

“Who?”

“Forget it. Lean your head back.”

I open a drawer and pull out a brand-new razor from my “new stash”—where I keep a set of new toothbrushes, a new toothpaste, a box of Q-tips, and fresh sets of razors. When I pull out the razor and look down at him, my breath hitches.

He’s sitting there with his head tilted a bit back, his blue eyes trained on me. Swallowing, I try to recover by fanning a towel around his shoulders, hoping that he doesn’t notice my trembling fingers.

I’ve never shaved a man before, and now here I am, hoping I don’t cut him.

“Are you good with razors?” He cocks one brow.

“I’m terrible with them. Any final words before we do this?” I grin down at him before grabbing the shaving cream and lathering it on his face.

“Guess that was my way of asking if you’ve ever shaved another man? Elizabeth?”

I pause before looking down at him.

He’s looking straight into my eyes, and for a second there, I feel as if he can see right through me.

Clearing my throat, I’m suddenly carefully raking the razor over his tight jaw. “Why do you ask?”

He laughs. “Why not. Answer me.” His timbre drops.

Wow. This guy. I’m the one with the razor. But he acts like he’s the one with all the control.

I frown for a second, then relax and concentrate as I drag the blade across his chin. “Well, I . . . I don’t have a boyfriend. And I’ve never shaved anyone for the hell of it. Never worked in a barbershop.”

“I’m a lot of work.” He grins up at me. “So why me, baby?”

“I’m . . .” I scowl down at him. “I’m not your baby. And maybe I think you’re worth it.”

“Maybe I am.” His lips are thick, full, and completely beautiful.

Eyes up, Elizabeth.

But god, those baby blues aren’t much easier to look at.

“So, what do you want to talk about?” he asks, crossing his arms and exhaling as he relaxes in the chair.

I try to focus on the task, not wanting to nick him. He needs to be perfect. God, and he smells so good. I try not to notice. “Why don’t you tell me about yourself?”

“Where do you want to start?”