But none of them ever made me catch my breath at first sight. I might not be able to focus on cleaning all day if I’m thinking about losing myself in those eyes, tugging loose that high ponytail, and unbuttoning the top button of her silk blouse to take a taste of that swan-like neck.
When the client opens her mouth to speak, her fire-engine red tinted lips have me ready to fall to my knees right here, right now.
The universe is playing some kind of sick joke on me.
I haven’t dated anyone since I moved to LA. I decided early on that I shouldn’t try to brave the dating scene until I achieved some kind of success. Or at least met some of my goals. I’ve stayed true to that because I’m not a casual dater. I want a wife, kids, dogs, cats, maybe even a pair of guinea pigs.
And, now, here I am, standing in front of the woman I’m going to marry. At the most unstable, desperate phase of my life.
Not a good look, Luke Jeffries. Not a good look at all.
Chapter Two
Stella
The hulk of a man tromping up my front steps—whom I’m watching through my bathroom window—cannot be real.
By that I don’t mean he must be an actor. I mean, is he a figment of my imagination or did I somehow summon a personal trainer with a few simple keystrokes?
I blot my red lipstick one last time and hurry to the door as he rings the bell.
Slow down, girl. I know it’s been a while since any man this good-looking has graced your front door, but that’s no reason to forget what’s happening here. Someone took a look at your internet search data and figured out you were in the market for a trainer, and crossed a major boundary by sending one right to your house!
Time to update my firewall.
And while I’m thjnking of this, my mind wanders off to thoughts about putting up a security gate at this place.
My company’s vice president has been begging me for years to hire a personal bodyguard and a driver, even. But that’s just not who I am. Sure, I spend money on myself, indulge in clothes and shoes, even share a private jet with a few other titans of the tech world. But I just can’t stand the idea of a security detail watching my every move. Besides, aren’t we all under surveillance enough in this crazy world?
My hands smooth down the front of my already-pressed suit, as I pull myself together so I don’t rage at the poor guy. It’s not his fault. He’s not the spy, but his boss might be.
Just about an hour ago I was surfing online for an in-home personal trainer, and now this.
My life’s work in computers has been to combat exactly this type of spying and data mining. Some companies may pay a lot of money to spy on our every keystroke, text, conversation and passing thought in this day and age, but this is ridiculous. Oh the irony that despite all my firewalls, they’re now collecting data on me.
I open the door to a massive, athletic-looking hunk with the most innocent smile I’ve ever seen. Not the kind of cocky grin I’ve gotten from a lot of guys I meet. This is the face of someone with no ulterior motives whatsoever. I can just tell by looking at him, with his bright, curious eyes, he’s a decent human. I relax a little.
Even though I’m about to call his boss on the carpet, I feel a little bad about it. Someone as sweet-looking as this oversized dude should never lose that quality. What is it? And how can I tell that just by a smile?
Girl, you’ve been alone too long.
Glancing down at my suit and pumps, I remind myself that yeah, there’s a good reason I’m still alone and projecting certain attractive attributes on a total stranger showing up at my door. Because you’re a workaholic.
No, a self-made woman who oversees a vast internet security company does not have time to swim in her own pool, let alone time for coach-led exercise. Or time to date anyone, for that matter.
“The internet has gone too far this time, even you should agree.”
The confused expression on the muscle-bound, made-for-TV fitness coach filling up my door frame charms me with some strange magic, because he manages to smile and be confused at the same time. It might be the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.
Mental note: give yourself an orgasm later and get these urges under control.
My eyes don’t listen to my mental notes, however, and neither does my libido. My gaze takes note instead, that this incredibly striking human in front of me is wearing a fitted tee-shirt that strains over the muscles of his chest, and gray sweatpants, which—well, surely I’m not alone in my appreciation of gray sweatpants.
“I…guess so?” he says, still looking confused, but with an air of concern also. Not even the ballcap can hide those Colin Farrell eyebrows. And why shouldn’t he be concerned? He probably thinks I’m certifiable, the way I’m staring at him.
Don’t look down at his sweatpants, Stella.
I force myself to examine the not-sexy parts of him and notice he’s carrying a clipboard in his hand. A soft brown curl has escaped from under the cap, wrapping itself around the No. 2 pencil that’s tucked behind his ear. Deep brown eyes peer down at me from under the cap’s visor.
He might be good-looking enough to convince me to skip work and commence resistance training right now, even though I’m about to go to work and give the most important speech of my life.
I’m meeting with the heads of a group of other companies, to convince them to invest in a joint venture. This speech is going to be a hard sell, but to help protect our elections, and to take down fake news sites on social media, we competitors have to band together for the greater good. I just hope they buy it.
“Well,” I reply. “The internet is getting spooky, don’t you think? Full of spies trying to sell you things based on your search history.”
The man leans back slightly, as if trying to assess me, and to try to figure out where I’m going with this line of questioning.
“But…you did fill out the questionnaire…”
I laugh. “Oh, so you saw the quiz that I took about my body type and everything? Already? Wow. Who did your boss hire for website cookies, because they’re really good. Foley, right? It must be Foley. Dammit, I knew I should have bought and folded that asshole’s company when I had the chance.”
“Cookies? I don’t know anything about cookies, but Lucille did pay me in banana bread.”
“What?” I ask.
“What?” He answers with a question and I have to work extra hard to feel annoyed about it.
I sigh. “Well, be that as it may, it’s no secret I do need a fitness coach, so I guess I’m not even that mad.” Lie. You’re not mad because he’s as cute as hell…and he smells good. A fresh, green scent like cut grass but better. “But I’m sorry to say my gym equipment hasn’t even arrived yet so there’s not much you can do for me at this point. And anyway, I’m about to leave for work, so…”
“Uhm,” he says, looking puzzled but amused, thrusting out one hand, his even-wider grin seemingly sending beams of light through my open front door. “Luke Jeffries, the agency sent me.” I accept his offer of a handshake, and the heat both awakens and settles me. Why are men’s hands so much warmer? And why is this man’s hand in particular warming me from the inside out?