Like Gravity(44)

As I walked in, six male heads swiveled around and performed a frank assessment of me. Equally quickly, they dismissed me and returned their attention to the items they were purchasing, undoubtedly assuming I was a lost sorority girl who’d wandered in by accident. I typically would’ve been peeved, but a glance down at my attire had me swallowing my indignation; my candy-apple red, plunging v-neck, emblazed with the words Surrender Dorothy in black script across my chest, was a far cry from the plaid lumberjack look most of these men were sporting. The wedged strappy red sandals and slim black capris I was wearing probably weren’t helping my credibility as a DYI’er either.

I obviously hadn’t given much thought to appropriate outfit selection when I rushed out this morning.

Head held high, I wandered further into the quiet store, looking for the paint section. It took me a few minutes, but I eventually found the colors I’d been searching for amidst what seemed like thousands of cardstock sample palettes. I grabbed the two I needed and made my way to the front counter, where a thin, balding, taciturn man of middle years was mixing paint.

“Can you mix me a gallon of each of these, please?” I asked, handing over the two paint samples and attempting to subtly shift my shirt higher to hide the cleavage he’d begun to eye rather enthusiastically. His fingers lingered on mine as he took the cardstock from me, and I suppressed a shudder. The man, whose nametag read Hank, leered at me with a suggestive smile that was missing more than a few teeth before disappearing into the back room. Presumably to mix my paint. Or to grab some zip ties and rope that he could use to restrain and abduct me. It was pretty much a toss up, at this point.

I was mentally calculating the probability of my being able to outsprint Hank in my flimsy – but oh so cute – wedges when he reappeared, a can of paint in each hand. When he told me the total, I tossed a few bills down on the countertop and hurriedly grabbed the paint can handles. I headed for the door, not even waiting for my change in my hurry to get away from Hank’s ogling, the less than friendly customers, and the uncomfortable store atmosphere.

“Come back again real soon, sweetheart!” Hank called after me as I used one hip to prop open the door.

“Not on your life,” I muttered under my breath. So much for my plan to support local small businesses. Next time, I was totally going to Home Depot, with its brightly lit aisles and plethora of cute employed college boys in orange aprons, eager to fill my every need. Okay, maybe not every need. But at least those that involved paint and hardware.

I finally managed to swing the door open, elbowing my way outside and struggling to balance both the paint and my purse while extracting my car keys. I was looking down, cursing under my breath, when a large hand closed over mine and grabbed both cans of paint before I could even react. Startled, I jumped about a foot in the air and my purse dropped to the pavement, exploding on impact and sending everything, from tampons to my cellphone, flying in different directions. I watched forlornly as my favorite lip gloss rolled under my car and out of sight. The puddles riddling the parking lot all contained various forms of indistinguishable goo and piles of trash, insuring that I would never again be putting that tube anywhere near my lips.

“Well, at least you didn’t scream this time,” a familiar husky voice chuckled from behind me. Every muscle in my body tensed with anger and I froze, still facing the car. “But seriously, Bee, we need to work on your reflexes if you’re going to pee your pants in fear every time I approach you. It’s either that or you start wearing adult diapers, and I don’t think that’s going to work for me.” His voice was threaded with amusement.

I turned, exceedingly slowly, to face him. Or, more accurately, to glare at him. I unleashed my iciest look, the one typically reserved for ass-grabbers and would-be rapists who got a bit too friendly on the dance floor.

Of course it had no effect on him.

He stood there, grinning like an idiot at me, looking more gorgeous than ever. His eyes crinkled, alight with humor and something less-easily defined. His toned arm muscles were on display as he held the paint cans aloft, the tattooed skin of his right bicep standing out prominently. I remembered the first time I’d seen the inky whorls that encased his upper arm – how I’d wanted to trace my fingers along the swirling patterns. Followed by my tongue.

Brooklyn! Pull it together. Jesus Christ.

I took a harsh swallow to banish those thoughts and refocused on how pissed I was, hoping like hell he hadn’t recognized the lust that had undoubtedly just flickered across my face.

“Well, maybe if you would stop SNEAKING UP ON ME,” I yelled, launching myself into his space so I was nearly pressed against him and stomping one wedged sandal with indignation, “I wouldn’t scream or drop all of my things or lose my FAVORITE LIP GLOSS. I loved that lip gloss, Finn. And now, it’s in a gutter. A sticky, gooey, gutter. And why are you even here? Why are you always here? Are you stalking me or something?”

His lips twitched with amusement and I could tell he was trying desperately not to laugh. “Did you just stomp your foot at me?” he asked, shoulders shaking with barely-contained mirth.

I glared at him and jerked my chin higher. I would not let him embarrass me. I would not back down. And I definitely would not continue to fantasize about kissing him until I ran out of air and passed out in his arms.

Shit.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone over the age of five do that,” he choked out, breaking down at last and throwing his head back to laugh at me. I smacked him hard on the arm, pivoted, and bent to retrieve some of my scattered belongings.