If I were going to be disappointed, I would have preferred to hold on to my fantasy.
As it turns out, I was not disappointed.
Far, far from it.
7
The crowd in the marble-floored, exquisitely decorated lobby was thinned out by the time I stepped out of the elevator. In Los Angeles, anybody who has a modicum of power or money jumps ship by 4PM so they can get a head start on traffic. To home, to drinks, to dinner, or maybe out of town to Vegas.
Everybody else pretty much calls it quits by 6PM and accepts their lot in life is to suffer on jam-packed freeways.
The peons, like me, are stuck watching all the other people get on with their lives.
So when I walked out of the elevator, there weren’t that many people to get in the way of my seeing him.
Oh.
My.
God.
He was standing at the desk chatting with Stanley. It had to be him. No way that one man that gorgeous, and another guy with the voice on the phone, could simultaneously coexist in the same building and not be the same person. The odds were too high. Even if they were two people, their combined sexiness would pull them together and fuse them into one perfect male, like two stars passing too close to each other in space. Sexiness gravity.
See? ‘Sexiness gravity.’ Good God. This is the sort of stupid stuff that starts running through my head and why I sound like an idiot around hot men.
And he was hot. Over six feet tall, probably six-two. Dark, wavy hair in a fashionable cut, slightly over the ear but not too long. Strong chin, perfect jawline. A strong nose that was just rough enough to make him look more manly than pretty-boy. A perfectly even set of white teeth in a heart-melting grin. And the lips on that smile… oh my. Those were lips made for long, lingering kisses.
The most astounding, crystal-clear blue eyes. Like ocean water in the Caribbean, the color you see in picture-perfect postcards. They somehow managed to envelope you with their warmth and send a shiver through you, too, like he could look deep inside you to your innermost secrets and desires.
I couldn’t pinpoint his age, but I figured it was late 20’s to early 30’s. He had the very beginnings of wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, a mischievous crinkle that went with the gleam in his eyes when he grinned. The crinkling wasn’t the age so much as the tan, though – a beautiful golden brown. Not the type that says, ‘I go to a tanning salon,’ but ‘I just came back from two weeks in Hawaii.’
He was dressed in a dark suit – something exquisitely tailored and very expensive-looking – so it was a little harder to see his body, but what I could see made my stomach flutter. His shoulders were broad. His chest pressed but didn’t strain at his crisp, white shirt. He was wearing a blue tie, one that matched his eyes beautifully. He had loosened it and unfastened the top three buttons of his shirt, exposing a powerful, chiseled neck, more of that tan skin, and the upper edges of well-defined pecs. A few dark chest hairs peeked above the top fastened button.#p#分页标题#e#
His thighs looked like they were muscular under the expensive pants, though it was hard to tell. He had on these trendy, kick-ass shoes – probably boots of some sort, with a kind of rock ‘n roll embroidering, if that makes any sense. They would have gone as well with a $500 pair of jeans in a night club as they did with his $5000 suit.
And I swear I don’t care about these things, but… I couldn’t help notice that his shoes were pretty big. And so were his hands: well-crafted, masculine, and large, like Michaelangelo’s David. (No wedding ring, by the way.) I also stole a brief, very brief look at his… ahem, below his beltline, and while I’m not very well-versed in judging these sorts of things with all the clothes on, let’s just say that I wouldn’t be surprised if he filled out his underwear pretty well in the front.
I shouldn’t have said that. Oh God. But, hey, I thought it at the time, so there you are. Can’t take it back now.
If you want the short-hand version, he looked like a model in an ad for a highbrow, extremely expensive brand of scotch. The kind of guy who would have hung with Sinatra in the 50’s, or with George Clooney or Kanye West now. Hell, the kind of guy they would call to hang out with. The kind of man who would have kicked Don Draper’s ass in Mad Men. A Young Turk on a break from conquering the world. The kind of man that every guy wanted to be, and every woman wanted to get to know.
‘Get to know’ is a euphemism, in case you hadn’t figured that out.
As I walked up, Stanley and the stranger were finishing talking about sports – the Lakers or something. Then Mr. Movie Star looked over at me and his eyes lit up. He got that gleam I described earlier, and the corners of his eyes crinkled as he grinned.