Page 27 of The Pucking Wrong Man

Alright, crazy. Don’t get a woody in the community kitchen line.

I waved goodbye to Sean, promising to stop by his table in a bit, and I turned and glanced down the line to see how long it had gotten. I wasn’t the speediest at this since I liked to talk to the regulars.

And holy fuck.

I blinked, and my tongs clattered to the table, because there was no way that my eyes were working. There was no way that this was real life.

Right there, like some kind of mirage…was my dancer. Anastasia Lennox was standing in line just a few feet away from me.

“Freddie, pinch me,” I muttered and I could feel him look over at me like I was insane.

Good old Freddie, though, he did in fact pinch me. Hard.

“Fucking hell,” I muttered, rubbing my arm because that had fucking hurt.

I couldn’t even drag my gaze away to glare at him, though—it was stuck on her.

I hadn’t thought it was possible, but she was so much better up close. Her hair was a cascade of white-blonde waves, shimmering even under the harsh fluorescent lights of this place. Each strand seemed to catch the light in a way that made her appear almost ethereal, a creature born out of my dreams and moonlight?—

Dreams and moonlight?

What was I even saying right now?

I rubbed at my still sore arm absentmindedly as I took in the rest of her features. Her skin was tan, like she spent her days outside. And the effect of her light hair and light eyes against the dark tan was mind blowing.

She was smiling at the person helping her—Tony—one of the nicest guys I’d ever met, and I wanted to chuck my tongs at him for getting her attention.

But then I really saw her eyes, and all the anger immediately drained away as her pools of light aqua reminded me of the Caribbean Sea.

I’d never seen eyes like that before.

She was without a doubt the most drop-dead beautiful girl I’d ever seen in my entire life. No comparison. No question.

This girl was the stuff of legends.

I had to have her.

Alright, play it cool. You’re an NHL studmuffin.

My heart was hammering in my chest, and I was feeling queasy all of a sudden. Was this what love felt like?

You felt sick?

Someone cleared their throat. One time. And then again.

I had to forcibly drag my gaze away to the very annoyed-looking Mrs. Partridge, who had clearly been waiting for her cookie and sub sandwich for quite some time based on how severely her lips were pinched together.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. P. Let me get you the best cookie I’ve got.”

She sniffed at me, not taken with my charm, and now I was starting to doubt myself. Was I off my game? Did I forget my aftershave this morning?

I quickly handed her a cookie—only one because of the bad attitude—and her sub, and sneaked a glance at my girl.

She was getting some salad. Two more stations and it would be my turn.

Was it hot in here? Because I was feeling a bit faint. We needed to get some air conditioning in this place.

Fuck. Did I smell? Sometimes I smelled when I sweated.

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