Two Wrongs (Meant To Be 1)

Jim-in-y Cricket.

All the light in the room seems like it’s on him.

The sexy beast’s eyes flash and connect with mine as he enters the room. Blue like a Caribbean lagoon, drawing my focus to a face that’s chiseled from stone. I feel these little hopping bunnies starting to scamper all around my belly, before joining together to drum like Thumper between my legs.

When he first blew into the room, he looked angry, but as soon as I locked eyes with him, he did this little stall-step and smiled a little. I look down to see how his suit pants have that perfect break over the front of his calves, cuffs resting on impossibly shiny black shoes.

God. Why are perfectly tailored pants so damn sexy?

I clap my hands over my mouth feeling a pull-tug at my center.

He is the black hole. I am the spec of dust. Resistance is futile.

He’s gorgeous, yes, in that sort of caveman, asymmetrical, who-am-I-here-to-kill sort of way.

“Want me to open a tab for you?” I hear the bartender repeat and bounce back to reality.

“Um… N—No.” I fumble inside my purse, feeling for the quilted pink Vera Bradley wallet my sister gave me for Christmas, but come up empty. I start tossing things on the bar, the sense that the Adonis is moving closer making me hyperventilate, but the bartender is giving me his best hurry-up smile. “Just a second…”

I pull out an old lanyard with a security badge from an onsite client a month ago, then a key chain full of at least ten keys I have no idea what most of them are for, then my make up bag which is half opened and the contents clatter onto the bar top, mascara spinning and my compact busting open.

“Shit.” I look into the abyss of my bag, seeing no pink anywhere. “I’m sorry…my wallet. It must be in my car—”

“On me.” A dark voice from over my shoulder transforms me into a steaming pile of brainless goo, as the magic man stands directly to my left. I’m immediately sucked into the vortex of his masculine aura and a spicy dangerous scent that seems to be nibbling directly on my clitoris. The bartender gives the man a knowing nod and turns toward another patron holding up and empty wine glass as I bite back a choking involuntary whimper.

“It’s okay, it’s in the car I’m sure…” I lie, like I’m not notorious for losing my wallet. Three times last year, once already this year pushing up on twice it seems. The lady at the emergency bank number knows account by heart.

“Are you Caroline?” His voice seems to echo around me as I take in the way his nose is a bit off center, but in the sexiest way, and I have this sudden vision of my clothes spontaneously bursting from my body, my head lolling back on my neck, arms wide, legs wider...

I shake my head. “Caroline? No, I’m…”

I see a flash of disappointment in his eyes as I open my mouth to offer my name, when a screeching voice cuts me off.

“Over here! I’m Caroline!”

In unison, we turn, and groan.

She’s pretty much the anti-me, right down to the lip plumpers. “Are you Tor? I’m Caroline!” she repeats, smacking her chest so excitedly I think she’s going to explode into a vapor of glittery red confetti to match her full-length sequined dress.

“Is this the Oscars?” I mumble, and I look up to see sexy man’s eyes close for a beat.

He mutters something about his grandmother, then he counts to ten before opening his eyes again.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he sounds actually sorry. Defeated almost. “Still, I’m happy to pay for your drink.”

His fingers brush across mine, sending electric sparks up my arm as the woman tosses back the last of a glass of white wine, her hair in a tight black bun as she struggles to walk in the mermaid tightness of her dress.

“I’m sorry, too,” I whisper as he side-steps around me, shooting me one more killer look as I see the front door of the restaurant open and know immediately the evening just went from bad to worse.

There is Arthur. My date.

He stands looking around inside the door, his hair a few strands of what once was slicing across the shining skin of his bald head. His profile pic was a decade old, easy. Khakis with a grease stain on the right thigh are paired with a short-sleeve, light blue, perma-press button down with the NASCAR emblem embroidered on the front pocket. There’s a whole lot going on with that shirt, and none of it is good.

Suddenly, a free dinner seems less like the pot of gold, and more like a steaming caldron of you-get-what-you-deserve.

CHAPTER 3

Tor

My patience is at its limit.

Caroline is a non-stop deluge of complaints from the kind of ice cubes in her water to the uneven sear marks on her ahi tuna.