And maybe that last part hit me a little harder than it should have. Especially when it’s been forever since I noticed someone looking at me with that kind of heat in their eyes.
Or maybe it’s just the first time as of late that I’ve cared to notice. Or wanted someone to notice.
Is it ridiculous that my breath catches in my throat when Ford walks back into the lounge area? That I’m excited by the prospect of getting to know him better? That I’m relieved he didn’t leave?
And by how his white dress shirt is soaked and clinging to his chest, one could assume he went out to his car for something.
But I’m not thinking about why he went to his car or the wine in my hand or anything else for that matter, because I’m too busy being captivated by him. How he walks over to a settee on the far side of the room where I now see his bottle of whiskey and glass on the table beside him. How he unceremoniously and nonchalantly unbuttons said wet dress shirt that’s clinging to him, strips his arms out one by one so that every damn muscle contracting is on display.
His defined abs.
His broad chest with a slight smattering of dark hair.
The bronzed tone of his skin that reflects hours spent outdoors and shirtless.
For the love of all things holy . . .
I’m certain the thud I hear is my jaw dropping to the ground.
He bends over and messes with something in the bag he brought in, giving me an equally appealing look at the definition of his shoulders before pulling out a sweatshirt.
It’s faded and looks worn when he pulls it over his head to end the Magic Mike portion of the program, but I do a double take when I see the Wharton Business logo emblazoned across its front. Small world. A man doesn’t wear a sweatshirt that well-loved if he didn’t attend the school.
It seems Ford is well-educated too.
But it’s when I look up from the letters now sprawled across his chest, that I meet those amber eyes again. Whew. Funny things happen to my insides that aren’t supposed to happen when our eyes lock. His smile is lopsided, and the lift of his whiskey glass in my direction is a welcome invitation to take the empty seat beside his.
Against my better judgment, my feet move toward him.
What are you doing, Elle?
The angel on one shoulder pretends it doesn’t hear the devil on the other. Good thing the text alert knocks both off as I approach him.
“Contemplation over?” I ask as I set the bowl of germ mix down on the table and smile at him.
He looks at me above the rim of his glass, drops of water shaking loose as he nods. “I’ve always been a sucker for a good whiskey, and surprisingly, this place has some.”
“I’ve never been a fan of the hard stuff myself.” I make a sour face and wince as his smile widens. It’s then that I realize the innuendo of my statement and shrug unapologetically.
“It’s an acquired taste. With time, I’m certain I could get you to like it,” he murmurs as his eyes dart to my lips and then back up.
I guess when he shed that dress shirt, he left the grumpiness behind with it.
“What is it that you have against pretzels?” he asks with a lift of his chin to the bowl and the two pretzels I just picked out.
“I’m salty enough when I want to be. I don’t need to add to it.”
He bursts out laughing. “Seriously?”
“No. Maybe.” I lean over and pick another one out of the bowl. “Perhaps I just like being quirky.”
He gives me a disbelieving look, our eyes holding for longer than they should, before he breaks the stare and shakes his head. “I like that you are too.”
Hot and gives heartfelt compliments.
Can the man stop climbing the perfect meter?
With a look around and a rock back on my heels, I say, “I guess this is our bed for the night.”
“Seems that way. At least it’s not the floor. The bonus is it has a killer view of the light show going on outside.”
The couch is the same deep burgundy as the barstools, but despite its stiff appearance, when I sink down onto it, I’m surprised by how comfortable it is. I wiggle my butt to make a show of approval before stopping, leaning over, and whispering, “I’m wondering what’s wrong with this couch?”
“What do you mean?” he asks, a sigh falling from his lips as he sits. But the sigh falters when our hips touch due to the limited space of the settee’s cushion.
I have a flustered second where I wonder why I’m even flustered. He’s a man. I’m a woman. We have a place to sit for the night. Our hips touching shouldn’t be a big deal.
And yet . . . I’m suddenly a little flushed and desperately thinking about anything other than the heat of his hip against mine.
It’s hot in here.
Is it hot in here?
I work a swallow down my throat. It’s definitely hot in here.
Movement. I need to . . . move so I don’t also think about this man’s firm, muscular thigh against mine. I shift so my back is against the arm of the couch, my knee is bent and touching his thigh so that I’m facing him.
Shin-to-thigh contact is way better than hip-to-hip contact.
Of course, that gets me thinking that there are way better contacts than just hip to hip—pelvis to pelvis, chest to chest, mouth to mouth. Stop it, Elle.
I roll my eyes and when I look up, I’m met by a bemused lift of his eyebrow as if to say he sees I’m flushed and knows exactly what I’m thinking.
To say the image of his bare chest and abdomen doesn’t flash through my mind would be a gross understatement.
So I ramble.
“What were we talking about?” I ask, busying my hands.
“Our bed for the night.”
“Yes. The seat. The settee. This spot right here.” I pat the back of it with my hand. “The question is, why had no one taken this spot yet? It’s prime real estate. The windows. A table to prop our feet on. No drunk, snoring men like over on the other side of the room. I mean”—I place my hand on his forearm out of habit. Skin. Touching. Again. And all but yelp as I pull it back just as quickly as I touched him—“clearly there’s a sign somewhere that says it’s been reserved for Chris Hemsworth.”
He levels me with a droll look, but the corners of his mouth turn up. He may have left his grumpiness aside, but he’s still quiet. Still troubled.
“Oh, is that what that sign said that I crumpled up when I came over here but didn’t read?”
“Of course, it is.” I pretend to huff. “I’m sure your people reached out to their people and set this all up.”
He smiles again, and it’s worth the silliness just to see it. As a reward, I pick up his bottle of whiskey and pour more into his glass without asking. He nods and takes a sip, his gaze settling on his hands wrapped around his glass.
Despite his discarded grumpy shirt and the smile he gave me, it’s clear his fight is weighing heavily on him.
“I’m sorry about your brothers. I’m sure whatever you fought about was valid and real and, at some point, will work itself out.”
He nods, but it’s not convincing. “Perhaps.”
“For what it’s worth, I work with my brothers too.”
“The start of that sentence tells me there is a story to tell.”
“Meh.” I shrug. “It’s partially my company, but I don’t feel like it is. You see, I own twenty-five percent of the business like my two stepbrothers and stepfather do, but because I have a vagina—” He coughs over his drink, and I just look at him with a face of innocence. “What?”