Fall (VIP #3)(2)

Whatever the case, all that’s left are a few chocolate chip bags and one lonely package of Double Stuf Oreos. Not to worry, my little Double Stuf delights, I’ll find you a good home. I grab the pack and am about to put it in my basket when Mr. Peanut Butter and Chocolate turns the corner. Again?

His long stride stutters as he catches sight of me, and his brow lifts a touch as though he too is thinking, you again? He glances at the Oreos in my hand, and his fine lips flatten. Because they are fine, those lips. Well shaped, wide, not too full, not too thin but just …

Jesus, I’m gawking at his mouth. And he’s staring.

Facing off like gunslingers at the O.K. Corral, the moment holds a beat, one in which heat flares low in my belly and between my legs. Mortified, I turn and flee. Like a wimp. Because a blush is coming on. Bad enough to be caught staring twice. Worse to be caught with my hand in the cookie jar, as it were.

I’m all too aware of my ass and its generous proportions as I hurry away past smirking Keebler Elves. Pissed at my self-consciousness, I decide to slow down and work it, putting a little extra sway into the motion.

Unsettled by the mini showdown, I hustle while getting tampons and some new body wash, then head for the ice cream aisle. I have plans, and they include cookies, fudge sauce, and my favorite mint chocolate chip ice cream.

Rounding the corner, I come to a screeching halt. Mr. Tall, Dark, and Accusatory is opening the ice cream freezer and reaching for the last …

“You are not going for the mint!” It isn’t a question.

He pauses, and again his dark brow lifts, this time a little higher, a little more outraged as well. God, those eyes, green sin surrounded by thick, thick lashes. Girl lashes. Nothing else about him is girly. “And if I am?”

A little shiver runs over my skin that has nothing to do with the icy air billowing out of the freezer. He has a hint of a British accent, faded in spots like a pair of well-worn jeans. And his voice? Gah. It is sex and sweaty sheets, hot fudge over crushed cookies.

I really need to eat before shopping next time. I should head for the checkout and go home.

But mint chip is on the line here. I stomp down the aisle, far too aware of the way my body pushes through space to get closer to him. Shit, this guy is potent, all irresistible pheromones and irate smolder. I brace myself against the onslaught.

“I’ve been looking forward to that ice cream all day.” And it is the only one left. Geesh. What is with this store? Did everyone in the city raid it earlier?

Mr. Smolder shifts his weight, bringing his lean body closer. “I’ve been looking forward to it too.” His hand wraps around on the top of the carton.

No freaking way. Oh, it is on, dude.

I grab the bottom of the carton. “You do not want to get between a woman and her ice cream, bud.”

His eyes narrow. God, he really looks familiar. Not in an, oh, where have you been all my life way. It’s more of a, have you been on the news lately—and please don’t let it be as a possible murder suspect type situation. Sexy beast murderer? Sure. He’s definitely got a bad boy thing going on.

His dark hair is short on the sides but shaggy on top, falling into his eyes to tangle with those crazy long lashes of his. I have the insane urge to brush the locks back. But I don’t.

I’m frozen by his glare. Great gravy, he’s imperious and utterly assured, awash in the kind of arrogance that says he’s used to getting his way in all things. My perception of him shifts again, and I wonder if he’s a rich boy slumming. His gray sweater is cashmere, and though his peacoat and jeans are worn, their cut is too good to be off-the-rack retail. In my line of work, I’ve been around enough wealthy men to know fine clothing when I see it.

He’s either rich or really good at picking up great secondhand bargains. And he’s still oddly familiar. I can’t pin why, and it’s weird not knowing. I’m usually an expert at reading people. But this guy defies basic categories.

His voice takes on a hard tone. “You got the Oreos, sweetheart. I’m taking the ice cream.”

I hold my precious stash closer to my side. “And they need The Mint to be complete.”

“‘The Mint’?” He laughs shortly. “Are you seriously referring to ice cream as though it were some kind of superpower?”

“It certainly has the power to bliss me out.”

That imperious brow of his lifts high again. “And that’s supposed to persuade me to let it go?” Something darkens in his gaze, something that sends an unwanted flash of heat over my skin. “What if I want some bliss too?” he murmurs, all dark sex and hot chocolate.

Oh, he’s good. He probably cons lots of women out of their ice cream with that melting voice.

“Too bad. This ice cream has my name on it, mister.” I tug, but his grip tightens, and the carton won’t budge.

He leans closer, bringing with him the scent of soap and a whiff lemon-honey. “You’ve stepped on the train to La-La Land if you think you’re getting this ice cream, Button.”

“Button?”

“You heard me.” He grins then—all teeth—and gestures toward the other flavors with a nod of his head. “Give up the ghost and grab the Neapolitan over there. Because this ice cream is mine.”

This is ridiculous. I never bicker with strangers. And certainly not with hot guys. Under my normal MO, I would have made a joke about snowstorm-related ice cream shortages, wished the stranger a nice night, and then been on my way. Conflict solves nothing. Yet here I am, acting like an insane woman. The knowledge doesn’t stop me from growling, “I. Want. The. Mint.”