Losing Control(5)
The phone call I made last night was the first step toward solving that problem, so long as I didn’t mind doing things that could get me fifteen years of incarceration if I got caught. At least I’d get free room and board in jail.
I brood all morning long, and I’m not in the mood to find one of the last of my morning deliveries delayed. When I see the sign in the window that says, “Be back in 15 minutes,” I let out a little scream of frustration and kick the doorframe.
“Bad morning?”
The question comes from a rich, deep voice to my right. Some stupid actor. The notes of his voice are perfectly modulated, as if he spent years perfecting the tone and depth to reach the biggest audience.
“Yeah, what’s it to you?” I challenge because I’m not in the mood to be chatted up by some wannabe in an off, off-Broadway production who wants to try out some new lines on a messenger girl.
My sneering gaze melts right off my face when it lands on the owner of the voice. Dark-haired and dark-eyed, the stranger gives me a slow smile as I take him in. He’s tall, much taller than my five-foot-four-inch frame. My eyes have to trek upward to see the entire package.
And there’s so much to appreciate—from his trim waist to the wide shoulders encased in a gray wool suit coat that fits him so well I wonder if he was sewn into it. Tiny stitches on the lapel mark its expensive provenance. A darkly tanned neck gives way to a firm chin and lush lips.
“Bee stung” is the description that I’ve heard used to describe the same look on supermodels. Those lips are about the only soft thing on his face. Those lips and a hollow on the side of his face that appears when those plush lips curve upward. The divot is too shallow and wide to be termed a dimple, but it’s as devastating.
One hand is stuck in a pocket and his jacket is pushed behind the hand to reveal a flat stomach. No desk paunch on this guy. There’s an intense sexual aura about him. The nonchalant stance, the dark gaze, the lush lips are all an invitation to rip the buttons of his snowy white shirt apart and see exactly what lies underneath all of those fabrics.
In the guise of giving my chin a scratch, I stick a thumb under my jaw to make sure my mouth is closed. This guy? He can practice lines with me all he wants.
His half-smile widens knowingly. “Kind of a beautiful day to be kicking doors down.”
It’s obvious he’s well acquainted with his effect on women. Too bad I can’t sneak a picture for my mom. A verbal description is not going to do him justice.
“If I can’t deliver my packages, then I won’t have time left to enjoy said beautiful day.” I lift the Wiggin’ Out delivery to show him.
He nods and pushes away from the post he’s leaning against. “I’m in complete agreement. I say we blow our responsibilities off and head to the park.”
He bends his arm and pulls up his suit jacket sleeve to reveal a thick watch with exposed gears. It looks expensive, too. He’s too well put together to be an actor, and they don’t wear suits unless they’re on stage or being interviewed by a late night show host. His attire is more suited to downtown in the financial district where pin-tucked lapels and ice-blue ties with tiny white dots that are paired with snowy-white shirts are deemed normal. This guy’s outfit says investor, not poor actor.
“Are you lost?” My mouth opens before my good sense can catch up.
“It’s the suit, right?” He flips up the end of his tie and gives me a roguish grin. What is it that Pam from Archer says? Oh right, you could drown a toddler in my panties right now.
“It’s the suit,” I confirm.
“Not lost,” he says, “But if I was, would you have lent me a hand?” He lifts his own hand, palm up, as if to gesture for me to take it. I follow the thick line of his arm and am surprised at how capable that hand looks. Strong. Like it could hold you up if you stumbled. I want to grab it and clutch it to my chest. Not the hand of an investor either. Because I’m not able pigeonhole him, he’s all the more fascinating. I step closer.
“Yes,” I say—because who wouldn’t? Random tourists would walk out of expensive Broadway shows if he announced that he needed help.
My immediate answer is rewarded with an even deeper smile. It’s kind of magical. My bad mood, the worry about my mother, the stress over our lack of money all melts away like ice cream on the sidewalk on a sunny day. I want to stand here and bask in the warmth of this handsome stranger’s smile. We smile at each other as if we’re both happy to be sharing a moment. His hand is still upward, still waiting for me to take it. I lift my own hand slowly and reach toward him, already anticipating that it will be dry but warm, solid but not hurtful. He doesn’t move—not an inch—somehow knowing that I can be easily startled away.