Page 4 of Third Time Lucky

Chagrin transforms his harried expression and he lowers his phone to his side. “Shit, I’m sorry. Are you okay? Are you visiting someone in the building? Clark, maybe? Should we call him?”

His gruff, whiskey-voiced sincerity is as compelling as the rest of him, but I force myself to find it, and his inability to get my reference, incredibly annoying. I can’t be the first person who’s mentioned the resemblance.

“I’m not visiting. And you didn’t hit my head, just my shoulder, so you don’t need to call anyone. I know where I am and what year it is. We’re good.”

“I’ve only been here a few months. I haven’t met everyone yet.” He bends to scoop up my leather messenger bag in his noticeably large hands, still looking me over in concern. I’m sure it’s meant to be more of an objective medical scan than a sexual invitation, but my traitorous body apparently can’t tell the difference.

What is this about? I’m still pissed and potentially bruised by our run-in, and now is when my dick decides to make its presence known?

He holds out my bag and watches closely as I slide the strap over my good shoulder. “I really am sorry. I hate it when people stare down at their phones instead of seeing what’s right in front of them. I heard the door and thought you were… It doesn’t matter. It’s been one of those days, man. That’s my only excuse. You ever have one of those?”

The more he speaks, the harder it is to ignore my reactions. And I say harder in the literal and damn inconvenient sense of the word. But he’s aiming for sincere remorse, not seduction, so I adjust my bag in front of me and rally.

“I walked right into a wall tonight,” I say lightly, hamming up my wince as I rub my shoulder again. “Does that count?”

A short blast of amusement escapes his throat and his lips curve in gratitude and relief. “It counts. A wall, huh? And you walked into it? Not the other way around?”

“Well, I do run into things a lot. I’m always staring down at my phone.”

“Ha. I—” His phone chirps and the scowl is back in an instant. “Shit.”

He turns his back and stares down at his phone without another word.

That was our moment.

Our eyes didn’t lock. Time didn’t stand still. He didn’t throw me over his shoulder for a good ravishing, which is a damn shame because that’s always been on my bucket list. And it all happened so fast I’m left more with impressions than details. A strong, shadowed jawline, a deeply dimpled chin and green eyes that momentarily brightened to emerald with laughter.

I’m not the one he was waiting for.

Which is fine, I tell myself firmly, even after getting my first look at the most magnificent ass ever created.

I hated his version of Superman anyway.

“Mr. Redmond?”

I glance away from the ass of my dreams and do a double take. Standing beside me is the most interesting man in the world. No. Not that one. This one has silver-hair and is dressed in a classy marching band uniform, with a pair of blinged-out glasses perched on the edge of his nose. Look out, Elton John.

“Mr. Gordon?” This has to be the concierge who’s in charge of everything from maintenance and security to mood swings and local gossip. Based on our email exchanges, I’ve gathered he’s the ultimate guardian at the gate, and one of only a small handful who know how to contact the owner of the building in case of emergencies.

I’d be smart to stay on his good side.

Without acknowledging the brooding elephant in the lobby, he holds out my welcome basket. As if anything could top the Butt that was Promised. As if I were a child that could be easily distracted by—“Are those kumquats?”

“Yes, sir.” He hands the basket over and my stomach growls, the sound embarrassingly loud in the now silent lobby. I might have missed a few meals today, and I only remember that fact when I see the caramels, fresh chocolate chip muffins, kumquats, figs, kiwis and a bundle of baby bananas in this basket made of magic.

Tiny fruits are a weakness of mine, and not only because they make my hands look bigger. The question is, how does he know that about me? Is Mr. Gordon a psychic? A wizard? A spy?

“Mr. Redmond, if you’ll allow me to escort you to your penthouse.”

I can’t resist the formal, possibly effected Jeeves voice. “Sure. I love a good escort.”

That came out wrong.

I start to follow him to the elevators, but I can’t resist glancing back for one final glimpse of the Cavill clone. My gut twists unexpectedly at the sight of his hunched shoulders as he studies his phone.

Bad news?

You can’t know that. You’re not a psychic wizard spy like Mr. Gordon. Your dick is confusing you.

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