Page 12 of Dreadful
Scene 3
SWEET TALLIE
Talia
He breaks our stare to glance over me as if he needs to examine me for himself before letting me go. My stomach flips as his fingers grip my soft waist, and I can’t stop staring at the Greek god-like man in front of me.
The warm undertones in his medium olive skin make the gold in his dark eyes pop. His short, black beard is perfectly manicured like he’s just had a shave recently. Sandalwood aftershave fills my senses, and the urge to bask in him tingles in my chest. But when his hands tighten around my hips, panic shoots through me. I shove him away without thinking, and he stumbles backward.
His right foot slides awkwardly, but he grabs a table to keep from falling. I leave him to fend for himself and snatch my sketchbook up before hustling behind the counter. The meager few feet still put much-needed space between us.
“How do you know my name?” I hiss.
“Calm down,vipera. Your name’s right here.” He tweaks the name tag just above my breast. My nipples perk in response. Before I can pretend I hate it and swat his hand away, he points with his thumb to the front of the bakery. “Not to mention it’s on the sign, too.”
“Oh…right.”
He shakes his head and huffs. “I guess there’s no thanks to the stranger that kept you from colliding face-first onto the ground?”
“Thanks,” I mumble automatically. There’s a menu slightly askew, and I fix it with the utmost care. “So, what can I—”
“What’s this?” His voice is deep and buttery smooth, sending tantalizing—annoying—ripples of pleasure over my skin. But it isn’t until papers shuffle around that I lift my gaze.
My eyes widen as he snoops through my sketchbook. The pages are mostly filled with work, but there are a few sheets that I’ve treated more as a journal than design pieces.
“That’sprivate.” I reach over the countertop to grab the book.
He calmly backs out of range, still looking. “As the customer who’s been trying to get your attention, I think I deserve to know what held you captive for so long.”
I could round the counter and try to yank it away from him, but I’m not willing to risk touching him again. Besides, the most damning entries are the ones in my collection upstairs. I used those sketchbooks to calm my mind in college when I couldn’t be back in Boston to do it myself. I rack my brain, trying to remember whether anything inside is worth tackling this huge six-foot-five monster.
“Damn, you’re talented.” I blush at his words, wondering which costume he’s looking at. “A little macabre. But talented.”
He lays the sketchbook on the counter, and I’m momentarily distracted by how large his hand is…until I realize it’s half-covering one of the few pieces that isn’t work-related. It’s a pencil sketch of a church graveyard with an open hole ready for a grave.
Fuck.
His brow furrows. “This place looks familiar…”
I snatch the sketchbook and toss it onto my chair.
“What can I do for you, sir?”
His eyes flare at the question before nodding to my hand.
“Glad you and the cookie are okay,” he answers, apparently unfazed by my attitude.
“The cookie…” I drift off, confused, before following his gaze to my hand.
The heat in my cheeks explodes with embarrassment at the sugar cookie that’s still glued to my fingers. I fell into a man’s arms, dropped my sketchbook, and risked bodily harm, but apparently none of that matters to my subconscious because at least I saved my dessert.
Jesus.
“Oh, yeah…” I try to laugh. “I guess you can see where my priorities are.”
I take another bite before setting it aside on a piece of parchment paper. “So…was there a dessert you wanted? Or are you just going to stand here and watch me make a fool of myself all day?”
His lips part, and blatant desire darkens his eyes. I watch in slow motion as his thumb gently swipes my bottom lip. My stomach drops, flips, and flutters all at once, and I fucking leanintohis hand.
