Second Chances: A Romance Writers of America Collection (Stark World 2.50)

"A Martha Stewart cookbook?" Hunk said slowly. "Well, um, that's a thought."

"Right!" she said, emboldened by his response, somehow missing the fact that he didn't even reach for the book.

After an awkward pause, he pointed to another title. "Hey, they have Entertaining for Dummies."

"That's funny," she said too quickly, her laugh sounding forced to my ears and tinged with relief at having managed to keep the conversation with him going. She reached over, fondled his leather jacket's collar and fluffed his hair, letting her fingertips play cat and mouse with his neck before sliding her shockingly red nails down his spine and bringing them to rest on the back pocket of his jeans. She announced her ownership of the man (and, apparently, all of his clothing) with a pointed stare in my direction.

I smothered a snicker and glanced down at my book.

Before their arrival that April nig

ht, I'd been lounging in a chair to their left. I was flipping through a huge volume of preschool "fun foods" and party ideas while surreptitiously taking notes for a short article I'd been commissioned to write for a parenting magazine. This was a solid text and, if I ever had a toddler in my life, I'd buy it for sure. With my single/no kids status, however, I tended to restrict my purchases to fiction.

The atmosphere upstairs in the Cooking & Crafts section was always casual and relaxing, though. I was in no rush to leave.

A moment later, the woman sauntered off to inspect books on a nearby table while the guy moved closer to my chair. There were other catchy party-planning titles displayed on a rotating shelf not more than three feet from me. Perhaps the book he was in search of was a present for someone unforgivably social, difficult to shop for, and/or really into complicated canapes?

I studied him carefully and scribbled a slew of mental notes while he was busy perusing the volumes.

A young professional--newly out in the world.

Preppy. Like he'd just walked off the set of one of those legal dramas on TV.

He couldn't have been more than twenty-five--about my age--and, beneath the black leather jacket, he was dressed in a layered cream shirt and pullover, fitted blue jeans, and dark loafers.

Attractive. No rings on his fingers, I couldn't help but notice.

I stole a longer look at his girlfriend, too. No rings either. Blond, fine-featured, and slim, she was clad in carelessly tight black pants, a red knit top, black boots, and was in possession of perfectly manicured, chip-free nails.

Add to that, she wore impeccable makeup and what had to be a pricey name-brand handbag (I'd be damned if I knew which designer) slung over her shoulder. She gave off an arrogant, entitled air, and my dislike was instantly cemented. I returned my gaze to the handsome dude in the black leather jacket, but when he glanced over at me, I buried my nose into my book.

I sensed him moving a few paces forward, though.

Searching.

Leaning in.

Taking another step or two nearer to me.

My left elbow, draped in part over the armrest, was closest to him and to the revolving shelf he was spinning in that slow, deliberate way. I was determined not to look up, but he was so close. His loafers were in my direct line of vision.

He inched even closer, his thigh brushing against my elbow. I just knew it was an intentional act. In that instant of epiphany, though, I lost my equilibrium. The big book I was holding wobbled. I grabbed at it, steadied it, but then dropped my pen, followed by several note cards and a couple of loose-leaf pages, which fluttered to the floor. I closed the book and bent to snatch my fallen items.

He immediately kneeled to help, but I was faster. Once I righted myself, I found his face at eye level with mine.

"Sorry," he mouthed, looking intense, uncomfortable, and so incredibly hot. Wow. I held my breath.

Our gazes locked for a second longer, and I noted with a writer's observation the way his light brown lashes appeared to disappear as they moved away from his eyelids. I struggled to think of an appropriate metaphor, but he angled his torso toward the bookshelf again and rose to full height before I could complete the thought.

The blonde, with the ever-present radar of somebody on perma-alert to potential threats, suddenly focused her attention on us. Ignoring me and addressing him, Cherry asked, "What are you doing?"

"Just looking at titles over here." He grasped a random volume, running his thumb along its spine.

With a shrill laugh that sounded like the scratch of a fingernail she said, "Oh, no, you're not. You just want to see what she's writing." Her eyes washed over me coldly, then she flipped her hair back and emitted another pseudo giggle.

I gazed directly at the guy, expecting some kind of reaction from him.

Expressionless at first, he caught my eye once more before turning away--his face reddening. Then, trailing behind her, I heard him protest, "No, I wasn't ..." And with that, they avoided me for the rest of my visit.