The Charmer (Harbor City 2)

Where in the hell had that come from? He was usually cooler than that—especially when he was the one who wanted people to think there wasn’t anything more to him than a cocky grin and a well-earned reputation for debauchery. He didn’t know what it was about the diminutive ant researcher, but she got him right in the soft underbelly that he hadn’t even realized was unguarded. He didn’t like it. Fuck that. He hated it, but he couldn’t ignore it any more than he could pretend not to see there was more to Felicia Hartigan than she let the world see, too.

His words hung between them as the ants went about their business not giving a shit about how the museum air suddenly smelled like it did before a summer storm—electric and full of possibilities. Inches of open space, that was all that stood between his mouth and hers. Her lips parted, and the tip of her pink tongue wet the bottom one. The pulse point at the base of her neck thrummed, drawing his gaze to the long, creamy column.

“All right, children, stay together,” a chipper female voice called out. “Don’t get separated from your buddy.”

Hudson and Felicia both turned as if in a trance. A group of about twenty kindergartners in blue blazers and plaid skirts, walking two by two, wandered into the ant lab, heading straight toward the man-made ant mound big enough to crawl through. They didn’t even look at Hudson and Felicia, but it didn’t matter. By the time he’d turned to look at her again, her eyes had cleared, her pulse had slowed, and the moment was gone. He shifted his stance to accommodate for the fact that his pants were tighter than they’d been when he’d left his apartment this morning.

“You’re right,” Felicia said, straightening her glasses with hands that no longer trembled, her low voice steady. “I made up my mind about you before we’d even spoken.” She exhaled a deep breath and met his gaze head on, her cheeks still pink. “It was wrong. I’m sorry.”

For once, he didn’t have a quip or a sly remark. In the world he’d grown up in, direct confrontation was frowned upon. And admitting you were wrong? Practically unheard of. He didn’t know how to process it, so he fell back on what he knew best.

“Are you saying that just because I could fund your entire lab?” He kept his tone light and teasing but couldn’t miss the way Felicia’s intent, observant expression didn’t falter.

“No. When I’m wrong, I admit it, and I was wrong.” She held out her hand with its clear, close-clipped nails and delicate, tiny tattoo of a honeypot—not the ant, an actual yellow pot that said honey—inside her wrist. “Will you accept my apology?”

He took her smaller hand in his. Her handshake was firm and professional, but that didn’t stop a sizzle of awareness from making him wonder once again what she was hiding under all of those baggy clothes. Yellow underwear to match her tattoo? Soft rose that matched how he imagined her nipples? His cock thickened against his thigh. Shit. He needed to stop thinking like this in a crowded lab with a bevy of kindergartners nearby.

“Apology accepted,” he said.

She smiled up at him, and his dick did more than twitch in his pants. Fuuuck.

Abruptly, he released her hand, stretched out his fingers to get rid of the tingling sensation in them, and mentally marched on with the real reason he was here and not the whatever that was snapping between them. “So, show me something less disgusting, and then let’s talk about how I’m going to get you what we both want.”

She cocked her head to the side. “What’s that?”

“Tyler Jacobson, of course.”

Her eyebrows went up high enough to be seen over the top of her glasses, and she honest-to-God laughed at him. “No offense, but while I’m sure there are a lot of people who think you’re devastatingly attractive, I doubt Tyler is one of them.”

“You think I’m hot, huh?” he asked, latching on to the one part of her declaration that made his pulse quicken.

He counted. One. Two. Three. And there it was. The color in her cheeks that suddenly appeared made him think of pink lemonade and cotton candy. Judging by the way he

r jaw tightened, she wasn’t as much of a fan of her body’s reaction.

“And that brings our tour to an end.” She started walking back toward the door marked Staff Only.

“While you’ve been studying ants and observing their behavior, I’ve been doing the same with people,” he called out, his voice easily carrying over the chatter of the school kids’ giggles. “I can help you.”

Her step faltered, then slowed. That’s it. Turn it over in that big brain of yours. Finally, she stopped and pivoted to face him.

“How?” she asked.

“We’d start with the hair.” It was a silky dark brown, almost black color that naturally caught the light. “You should wear it loose more.”

“A makeover?” she scoffed. “What is this, some dumb movie where the girl takes off her glasses and then everyone falls at her feet?”

He took another look at the worn sneakers, baggy jeans, and loose-fitting T-shirt. “No, we have more work than that ahead of us. This is more of a My Fair Lady project.”

“You’ve seen that movie?”

“It’s my mom’s favorite, and I’ve been forced to sit through it a time or two hundred.” And he’d sat through it every time she wanted to watch it after his dad died unexpectedly. It had been a rough three years of mourning for his mom, and he had done anything he could think of to make Helene smile—or at least not look quite so lost.

“Does that make you the professor?” Felicia asked.

“Exactly.”

“No way.” She shook her head. “I don’t believe in changing myself for a man. I’m a scientist. A girl from across the harbor in Waterbury. I don’t do false lashes, fake boobs, or a knock-off personality.”