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Shit.
“A book about bananas coming right up.” My voice comes out sort of muffled, as I purse my lips to minimize the damage and hide my teeth—which are slightly crooked, not too bad, but seem too many for my small mouth. “Rethipes okay?”
“Rethipes?” His brow furrows as he follows me, taking one stride for every two of mine. He’s so tall!
God, that’s hot.
“Um, yes. Recipes.” I untuck my lips and swallow hard, because I’ve fantasized about this guy for so long it’s not even funny, and he’s right here, beside me, asking me for a book about—
“Recipes sound good. He likes smoothies.”
Smoothies. And bananas. I’m updating my files on Jethro Connors tonight—yeah, real online files, okay? Shush—as I reach for the shelf. “Does he like cooking?”
“No, but I do.”
I flick a surprised glance at him and have to physically turn away when my gaze tries to glue itself to the brilliant blue of his eyes, the hardness of his jaw, the strong body stretching his sports jacket in just the right way to make me clench inside.
Insta-boy-gasm. Dammit.
And he likes cooking. Jeezus. That’s it, I’m kidnapping him and keeping him as my personal slave.
“Here you go.” I hand him the book, trying not to look at him as I do so, which results in some unexpected maneuvering—him reaching for the book, me handing it off toward the door, him bumping me with his backpack as he turns to grab it before it drops to the floor—and my eye catches on the big, curved banana on the cover.
I groan inwardly.
Because, let’s face it, no girl has ever had as many twisted erotic fantasies about a guy she’s never talked to before as I have, and I’m dying to ask if he likes bananas, too.
Bananas, peaches, papayas, nuts, eggplants, zucchinis… Hey, how about some Candy?
But before I ask—because yeah, I’m crazy like that, especially with a male specimen such as this one in close proximity, his musky boy-smell turning my brain to mush and my girly bits all excited and warm—his cell rings.
He reaches for it in his back pocket, draws it out, and turns slightly away to answer. “Jet, you dickwad, where were you? We said four, not fucking six.”
He turns his back to me completely and huffs, those broad shoulders rising and falling, and… his ass is spectacular. There’s no other word for it. Tight and pert, and those thick thighs encased in dark jeans, filling them out nicely…
I check my chin for drool. My boobs tingle. My kitty purrs, asking for some petting.
Later, pet.
“Yeah. Just buying some stuff. No, Ellen was a no show. It was a misunderstanding. No, I’ll be fine. There’s a nerdy chick in glasses helping me out.”
Boom.
Crash.
There goes the fantasy.
“Douchebag,” I mutter under my breath and take off my glasses, then put them back on when everything turns blurry. “Nerdy chick? Seriously?”
He glances back at me, blue eyes wide. “Did you say something?”
I shake my head and worry at a fuchsia-painted nail. Almost rip it off, and still I keep chewing at it like a crazed hyena with a juicy bone. “Ellen, huh?”
He blinks. “Yeah. Just a friend.”
Uh-huh. And even if I ignored that, the “nerdy girl” comment still rattles.
Nothing wrong with being nerdy, surely, I try to reassure myself. After all, it’s probably true—but that’s not the image I wanted to project, not to this guy. Not to the protagonist of my bedtime fantasies. He should find me pretty. Intriguing. Sexy.
