Page 60 of Ghosted
I laugh a little and head back inside, hoping to slip into myroom without notice. I’m scanning the store for Wren, so I don’t see the man who backs into me until it’s too late. I bump into his broad back, knocking him off balance. “Shit!” he exclaims. He turns around, holding the front of his shirt out and away from his chest. Even in the dim lighting, I can see he spilled champagne all down the front of his dress shirt.
I look up to offer an apology when my mouth runs dry becausedamnthis guy is attractive. Like, model or actor attractive. His chiseled jaw, perfect pout, and deep-set green eyes all press into a scowl, and it’s only then I realize I’m gawking. “Sorry!” I squeak out. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t see you, and just bam! Walked right into you. Please come with me so I can help you clean up. This is my party, so it’s the least I can do,” I babble.
“It’s fine. Really. You just surprised me,” he says, sultry voice wrapping around me like a velour blanket. He drinks me in and smiles appreciatively. I should be flattered or excited for the attention, but I find that I’m just not.
He’s not Dean.
Which tells me just how much trouble I’m in if I have no interest in this very attractive, very alive man who likes what he sees.
“I insist. Let me at least get your shirt dry for you. Come with me to the bathroom. I think we have a blow dryer in there.” He nods and follows me back through the crowd toward the hallway. I knock on the door, and when no one calls out, I push it open.
The door swishes shut behind us, and I bend at the waist to rifle through the vanity cabinet. I push past a mountain of toilet paper and cleaning supplies before my hand closes around the metal handle of our ancient blow dryer. I pull it out and plug it into the outlet by the sink.
I turn around and find that he’s close behind me. Not quite in my personal bubble, but I could reach out and touch him if I wanted. I didn’t think about how small this bathroom is, and with his well over six-foot frame, there’s little room for much else.
“Okay, can you give me your shirt? I hope your undershirt didn't get soaked too,” I say, holding my hand out.
“Would you mind holding my suit jacket?” he asks politely, shrugging out of it. I take it from him with a smile and surreptitiously step back, trying to gain even an inch more of distance between us, my butt bumping into the counter in the process.
He starts unbuttoning his shirt and I look skyward, feeling immensely awkward and regretting my insistence on helping. I narrow my eyes at the overhead fluorescent lighting, trying to think of anything but the man getting half-naked in front of me. When he holds the cream-colored shirt out to me, I switch his jacket for it. I turn my back, running the tap so I can rinse the champagne out first, grateful to have a task. I get the hair dryer going, and its loud screeching reverberates off the walls and drowns out the sounds of the party.
I turn my gaze away from the nearly dry shirt and look in the mirror, where I see the man has stripped out of his undershirt as well and has his jacket draped over his arm. The air shimmers behind him, and I stifle a sigh when Dean materializes looking furious.
I’m studiously ignoring Dean’s glare, but he makes it much harder to do when he presses up behind me and whispers in my ear, “Why are you alone with a half-naked stranger? I was just with you five minutes ago.”
“Sorry, this got wet too,” the man says sheepishly, raising his voice to be heard over the hair dryer.
I give a tight-lipped smile when I shut off the hair dryer and reply, “No, it’s my fault. I’m the reason you spilled your champagne in the first place. Almost done.” I look at Dean in the mirror with raised eyebrows, hoping that answers his question.
I hand the man his dress shirt and get to work on the soft cotton undershirt in my hands. Luckily, this has a much smaller stain on it, his dress shirt having taken the brunt of the champagne splatter.
“I can’t believe you got yourself in an enclosed space with a man you don’t know. Willingly! Don’t you know better than to trust strangers?” Dean lectures through gritted teeth, never looking away from the shirtless man.
I roll my eyes so hard it’s mildly painful. The undershirt dries quickly, and I shut off the hair dryer, unplugging it and tossing it under the sink in one smooth motion.
I spin and hand the shirt to the man. “Here you go. Sorry again, but hopefully the last five minutes in our spa-like accommodations have made it up to you,” I say, gesturing around the very small bathroom with its cracking purple paint and age-worn tile floors.
He smiles wryly, throwing his undershirt on in a fluid, practiced motion. “No problem. Any excuse to spend some time alone with a beautiful woman is fine in my book. Although if I’m shirtless, there’s usually less laundry being done,” he says with a chuckle.
“Hold on there, buddy,” Dean says, stepping up to the man and getting in his face. Too bad he can’t see Dean. He’s putting on quite the alpha-male, squawking-territorial-rooster show.
My red-painted lips curl in a smile. “I’m sure. I’m taken, though, or at least have the whole ‘it’s complicated’ thing going on.”
He looks a little disappointed at that but finishes buttoning his shirt and slipping on his jacket. “Ah. No problem then. I had to shoot my shot or I’d have regretted it. Whoever has your attention is very lucky.” With that, he sends me a wink and leaves, shutting the door lightly behind him.
“What a piece of work,” Dean grouses, folding his arms over his chest.
I snort and ask, “Oh, are we looking in the mirror?”
“He was coming onto you!”
“Fairly respectfully, if I do say so. And I can handle myself. I know how to tell a man no. And when I did, he left. So, why are we throwing a fit again?” I lean back against the vanity again, crossing my arms in amusement.
Suddenly, he’s directly in front of me and pressing me harder into the vanity. I have to throw my hands back to catch myself against the counter. “Because you’re driving me insane in this dress, Rae. I’m using petty town gossip to distract myself, but every time I look at you, I fantasize about tearing this off of you.” His fingertips spark along the seam of my bust, and I inhale sharply, annoyance forgotten.
“Why aren’t we doing that again?” I ask, running a hand through his hair and giving it a playful tug.
“Because you have a job to do,” he says, leaning in and pecking my nose before flitting to the other side of the small room.
