My Anonymous Lover (Forbidden Fantasies 57)

I sigh. Sometimes, you just can’t win, it seems like. I try to ignore the old lecherous guys sliding crafty looks my way, as well as the stone cold stares from their wives, but it’s tough. Luckily, before I start to squirm too much, Vanessa comes running over, her face alight. She pulls me in for a quick hug and then spins me around to get a good look at my outfit.

“Ginny, you look gorgeous!”

“You’ve seen me in this dress a million times already,” I laugh lightly, although I have to admit that I feel relieved to hear the compliment.

“And it looks even better on you every time I see it, so you’ll continue to receive my compliments every time you wear it,” she enthuses. I roll my eyes, playfully pushing my friend before looking her over.

“Vanessa, you look amazing yourself! Wow,” I murmur. It’s true too. My buddy’s wearing a pretty red dress that fits her nicely, and she looks stunning with her brown curls spilling over her shoulders and matching crimson pumps. Vanessa has always been such a cute girl and I think her looks are to die for, but she simply looks down at herself and sighs.

“Meh,” she grunts, rolling her eyes a little. “I’m alright, I guess, but I’d much rather look like you. I mean, you have the whole Wonder Woman vibe going for you with your flowing black hair and steel blue eyes,” she giggles, sending me a wry smile. “And your body is built like hers too. How does that even happen? Are you working out while you’re on the road? Do you have a gym membership?”

I snort.

“No, no gyms for me, although I do have some weights that I keep in the truck cab. Before I go to sleep, I just do some yoga poses and light reps. That does the trick.”

“Oh,” my friend sighs. “You’re so lucky Gins because I hate my curves sometimes.” In response, I smile encouragingly.

“You’re not big, you’re curvy, Vanessa. And big or curvy, you look amazing, girl! A lot of women would kill to have your body, with your Marilyn Monroe-like figure.” My buddy nods and is about to say something, but then she gasps as her eyes go wide.

“Look, look! OMG, he’s here!” she breathes.

“Who?” I ask, genuinely confused.

My buddy rolls her eyes, tugging excitedly at my arm.

“The candidate that I was telling you about, Jeremiah Cooke! The one we’re here to see. Look, look!” she whispers reverently, spinning me around to stare at the door.

I turn around just in time to see a very tall man striding into the lobby, a charming smile on his handsome features. With him is a deputy or two, trailing in his wake. They look positively puny behind the candidate as he raises one arm to greet the crowd.

“Thanks for coming, everyone,” he calls. “I appreciate your support during my run for mayor.”

I’m dumbstruck because I know this man from somewhere. But what’s crazy is where? He’s gorgeous, after all, so it’s weird that I wouldn’t remember him. His dark hair is swept back from a proud forehead, and he’s got piercing blue eyes that seem to see everyone and everything. I’ve never seen a man with such incredible bone structure either. His jawline is sharp, cheeks slightly hollow, and…OMG, are those dimples?

My God. I think he has dimples.

And his body – oh wow, even in his dark suit, I can tell how built he is. His muscles bulge every time he moves his arm even just a little bit, and his thighs look thick and strong like tree trunks. Everything about him looks big and strong, in fact.

Everything including … that.

I can see the slight bulge in his pants and— But then I cut myself off. This is wrong. God, what am I doing? I shouldn’t be visualizing the snake in our potential new mayor’s pants. I don’t think I should be focused on his looks at all because I should be thinking about zoning regulations, city ordinances, and keeping our small town business-friendly. Yet here I am, mooning over this man like he’s the handsome vampire in Twilight. How sad. But clearly I’m not the only one because beside me, Vanessa lets out her own dreamy sigh.

“Wow,” she murmurs. “I’ve seen pictures of Jeremiah Cooke, but they really don’t do him justice. He’s, like, freakishly handsome, don’t you think? He looks like Superman to your Wonder Woman, in fact.”

I snort, shaking my head a little as I bite my lip.

“No, no, no superheroes here,” I say in a low tone. Yet Vanessa’s description is apt because of Jeremiah Cooke’s coloring and that gladiator-like build. Maybe it’s covered in expensive fabric right now, but I know if he shed those clothes, he’d be a beast underneath.

Even worse, I feel as if I’m physically incapable of looking away from the man. I’m literally trying to—I don’t want to seem like a creep and keep staring—but I can’t find it within myself to bring my attention elsewhere. Where else is there to look anyways? There isn’t a single man here that can hold a candle to this preternaturally gorgeous male, and I’d rather keep my eyes glued to him.