Christmas In The City (Imperfect Match 1.50)

“I’m going to grab some vodka too. Be right back.” I veer off down aisle four and head for the booze section. They probably won’t have my favorite brand here, but beggars can’t be choosers, and I really need something to take the edge off this holiday angst.

Too bad Michael won’t be able to stick around long enough to have a drink with me. It sounds like he has to drive somewhere, and the weather is getting worse by the minute. I’m lucky we ran into each other and he had mercy on me—I’d probably be stringing lights on a tree still stuck in the lobby door if he hadn’t.

God, he’s so damn cute. And charming. And sweet. There was a moment in my apartment, right after he touched my nose, that I thought he was going to kiss me, but he didn’t. Did I imagine it?

Duh, of course you imagined it, you dummy! All you’ve done is make an ass of yourself and talk about your ex. He probably looks at you and thinks crazy ex-girlfriend. And look at the way he’s dressed—that man is too hot to be alone on a Friday night. He’s got a date.

I pull a bottle of vodka off the shelf and place it in my cart. Then I add a bag of Hershey Kisses, a box of candy canes, and a tube of ready-made sugar cookie dough. In aisle eight, I grab a few strands of lights and a box of colorful ornaments. Since we’re on foot, I don’t want to buy too much, but I can’t resist picking out a star for the top.

I find Michael in aisle nine looking at a box in his hands. My stomach flip-flops a little as I approach. He’s so tall. I wonder what he looks like underneath all those clothes, and for a moment I fantasize about unwrapping him layer by layer. The winter coat and scarf. The suit and tie. The buttoned-up shirt. I wonder if it has French cuffs or not.

I love French cuffs.

He catches me staring at his hands, which are strong but elegant-looking, with long fingers. “Do I need a manicure or something?”

Embarrassed, I feel my face get hot. “No! Sorry, I was just wondering something.”

One of his eyebrows cocks up. “About my hands?”

Oh, dear God. “Uh, about your shirt actually. Whether or not it has French cuffs.”

“Why were you wondering about my shirt?”

Because I was thinking about taking it off of you is not an appropriate answer, although I’m almost tempted to give it. I mean, why not—I’ve been spewing every thought in my head without a filter all night long, haven’t I?

But in the end, I don’t.

“I guess I just like a nice dress shirt with French cuffs.”

He looks amused. “And why’s that?”

I shrug, figuring I might as well be honest. “I think they’re classy and convey there’s something powerful about a man. But it’s an understated kind of power. Like he might drive a Range Rover and drink expensive scotch, but he’ll still pull your hair and say dirty things to you.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, but his eyes stay locked on mine. The tension between us ratchets up about a hundred notches. “Yes.”

I’m so lost in the heat of his gaze that I forget the question. “Yes, what?”

“Yes, my shirt has French cuffs.” He places the boxed tree stand he’s holding in my cart. “Yes, I drive a Range Rover.” Then moves closer to me, so close I can feel his breath on my lips. “Yes, I drink expensive scotch.”

I can barely breathe. My throat is dry. “And the other stuff?”

He smiles the slightly sinister grin of a well-heeled villain. “Come on. I have to let some things come as a surprise.”

While I’m standing there, equal parts turned-on and dumbfounded, he takes the cart from me and pushes it toward the front of the store.

Jolly Old St. Nicholas! Is this guy for real?

I feel like I might look for him again only to find he’s been nothing but a figment of my imagination. Do guys like Michael exist outside of fantasies and romance novels? Is

he secretly a serial killer? Am I going to wind up tied up in my closet tonight?

Actually, the idea has some possibilities …

It takes me a couple minutes to recover my senses, and by the time I find him near the registers, he’s already paying for all my loot. “What are you doing?” I ask, frantically tugging on his sleeve. “You don’t have to buy all this!”

“Harlow, it’s not that big a deal.” He pulls out a credit card from his wallet, but before he can swipe it through the reader, I grab it.

Michael West.