After the Christmas Party(2)

Leaning against the hotel ballroom wall, she took a sip of her third cup of fruit punch. Was she nuts or what? By coming here, she was sticking her neck under the proverbial guillotine. Two years ago she’d vowed to never attend another Christmas party, to ban Christmas for ever. Bah, humbug! That had been her motto.

Only she’d relocated two weeks ago and her new nursing director had said she needed to attend. So here she was, pretending she was having a good time and that she wasn’t contemplating a dash to the ladies’ room to toss the liquid-only contents of her fluttery stomach.

She smiled at a group of women who worked in the billing department as they paused near where she held the wall up. She didn’t personally know them. She knew very few people outside the cardiac care unit. But she had seen the trio around. Waving their hands with animation and talking a mile a minute, they didn’t notice her.

“He is so hot,” one of the women said, fanning her face with a bejeweled hand decked out with rakish long manicured fingernails and a sparkly ring so big it had to be fake.

“He’s yummy in his scrubs, but in those dress slacks and fitted button-down open just right at his collar…” a heavy-chested blonde gave an exaggerated sigh “…he’s outright lickable.”

Trinity followed their line of sight to see who had their tongues wagging. Oh, my. Um, yeah, they were right.

He was hot.

And lickable.

And a lot of other things that had her looking away really fast so her retinas didn’t start smoking.

Startled at her tongue-slurping reaction, she glanced back toward the object of their admiration. Her gaze collided with his. Wow. Something about him made her burn. Probably because he looked as if he’d walked straight out of every woman’s fantasy. The mischievous gleam present in his blue eyes said he was well aware of his many manly charms and that she threatened to spontaneously combust any moment just from his visual perusal. He knew he was that hot.

She gulped back another sip of punch, hoping it would cool the burn. It didn’t.

Which didn’t make sense because she’d banned men right along with Christmas two years ago. Especially a man like the one grinning at her. A man like that one would incinerate the already shattered bits of her heart.

“Oh! Shh! He’s coming this way,” one of the women squealed, slapping the other’s arm and sloshing a little of her Cosmopolitan onto the ballroom floor. All three of the women struck we-weren’t-just-talking-about-you poses and one gave a fake laugh as if whatever they were discussing was of the utmost interest and batted her lashes flirtatiously.

Really? Trinity wanted to roll her eyes. She glanced Mr. Lickable’s way again to see if he’d caught onto the women fan-girling him.

Yet again her gaze collided with electric blue and this time didn’t let go, couldn’t let go, as if there was some magnetic force at play that held her eyes in place.

She forgot how to inhale. Literally and figuratively. She couldn’t breathe.

Wow. He really was a beautiful man. Dark brown hair that had just a touch of golden curl and looked invitingly soft. Tanned skin that hinted he spent a lot of his time outdoors and, living next to the Gulf of Mexico, he probably did. He had a face and body gorgeous enough to give any movie-star hunk a complex.

Then there were those eyes.

So intensely blue that they had to be contact lenses, because no one’s eyes could really be that blue. Or that full of mischief. No doubt he’d been one of those kids who’d stayed on Santa’s naughty list.

Yes, the women were right. He was hot, so hot her mouth felt like the Sahara but the rest of her rivaled a rainforest and was probably putting damp spots on her dress. Great. Managing to shift her eyes, she took another sip of her punch, draining the clear plastic cup. Oops. Now what was she going to do with her nervous hands?

“Do you want something else to drink?” Mr. Hotness himself asked, walking past the we-weren’t-just-talking-about-you women and planting himself right in front of Trinity.

She glanced to either side, expecting to see some parched Delilah close by. He couldn’t be talking to Plain Jane her, right? And if he was, why?

The trio was staring at her in dropped-jaw surprise. She was surprised herself. She wasn’t chopped liver, but she didn’t kid herself that she was the model type this guy most likely dated either.

The last swig of punch had done nothing to help her dry mouth, which was problematic. Her tongue stuck to her palate, refusing to budge. She was positive anything she attempted to say could and would be held against her.

“I’ll be happy to get you more punch,” he added, causing a wave of eyebrow rises from their spectators. “Or anything else you might want.” One corner of his mouth lifted in a sexy grin. “I’m a man who aims to please.”