Page 3 of Another Story

“As in, do I sleep with five men at the same time?” I uncross my legs, only to cross them again, reveling in the way his eyes follow the movements. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but my life is much tamer in comparison.”

His laugh is the loudest thing I’ve heard in a long time, and it’s as assaulting as it is sexy. Head back, chin up, body following that sound of humor in a way that has me smiling.

“I wasn’t being literal…” He brings one hand to the back of his neck, eyes widening and brows raising a fraction while his other hand gestures toward me.

Should I?

Should—

“Eloise,” I offer.

He doesn’t repeat it, much to my disappointment.

“And you’re…” I catch myself leaning forward and acknowledge my interest. Not just in his name, but in him. In his voice, in his laugh, in the way his body looks in this hot-as-hell room.

There’s already a sheen of sweat coating his neck. I can see it as he shifts under the lights.

I want to taste it. To put my tongue on his pulse and feel his life’s source.

“My name is Ezra.” There’s a deep richness to his voice, and when it’s absent of laughter, it’s almost directing.

This man was, after all, able to get my name from me without properly asking for it.

But when it’s tinged with humor, it pulls you in to want to laugh as well.

“Are you going to answer my question?” he asks.

His words yank me from my assessment, and I shrug, even though his tone makes me want to try to.

Something about him makes me ache to please him.

People in this town are wary of strangers. But I welcome the connection to the outside world. And I welcome this newcomer like a kid wanting to open a brand-new toy.

I’d love to play with him.

“I don’t know how to answer it,” I reply. “No one’s asked me that before.”

And it’s true. No one bothers to ask about me because they either grew up with me or are intimidated by my resting bitch face.

If I’m being honest, the bitch in me isn’t reserved for only my face.

“Such a shame,” he murmurs, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms.

“What’s the shame here?” I wonder aloud. I may be a small-town girl, but I don’t enjoy being baited.

Yet, here we are.

“The idea that you’ve been overlooked. Shoved in some bookstore when you belong out there, breaking some poor man’s heart.”

Laughter threatens to crack through the moment. The only men I ever let close enough to break my heart are the ones I read about in the stories that surround me nearly every day.

“And if they’ve broken mine?” I ask, wondering what pitiful state he could imagine me in; wondering if he’d paint me as a damsel in distress, the brush in his hand worn from his work.

“You’re not the type,” he says, the smile on his face telling me he’s reading me like any one of these stories that fill the room.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He pushes off from the wall, and I wonder how attraction could become so palpable, it’s like a third person in the room.

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