Page 6 of Ache for You (Slow Burn 3)
Which is when I spot him.
He’s so breath-stealingly beautiful I think I must be hallucinating. That’s literally my first thought when I glimpse the god striding toward the bar—I’m hallucinating. I must be, because not only is he masculine perfection personified, it appears he’s moving in slow motion.
Either his beauty has changed the laws of physics or there was something funny in that champagne.
He’s tall and dark haired, with that unstudied, aristocratic elegance certain men are born with. I decide he’s European. I’m not sure which is more gorgeous, his face or his outfit. In stark contrast to all the other travelers in the lounge, who are dressed for comfort, he looks as if he stepped off a fashion show runway.
His bespoke navy blue suit is molded perfectly to his muscular body. The collar of his dress shirt is so white it glows, setting off the gorgeous olive hue of his skin. A cashmere overcoat the color of butterscotch hangs from his broad shoulders. I catch a glimpse of a silk pocket square, a chunky silver watch, and a pair of shoes that look made from the kind of buttery soft leather you want to rub your cheek against.
The urge to throw myself at his feet and nuzzle his loafers seizes me.
I watch as he approaches the bar and says something to the bartender. Polishing a glass, she turns, catches sight of him, and freezes. Her eyes bulge.
Euro Hunk must get that a lot.
He has to repeat himself twice before the poor woman finds the presence of mind to respond. Then she pours him a drink, hands it to him with a shaky hand and an even shakier smile, and starts blinking as if she’s trying to signal someone for help.
I’d laugh, but I feel sorry for her. The man is too stunning for words, let alone rational behavior.
He takes a swallow of the amber liquid in his glass, then turns and sweeps his gaze over the room.
I quickly look away. Although I’m a pathetic jilted bride who’s the laughingstock of the internet, I still have enough pride not to be caught drooling at a stranger.
No other female in sight has such scruples. I’ve never seen so many gaping people in my life. Even some of the men are staring in awe.
My fascination with Euro Hunk fizzles as fast as it came.
This guy makes Brad look like Homer Simpson—and Brad’s gorgeous. So if Brad’s ego and self-confidence were at stratospheric levels, I can’t even imagine what a pompous, conceited ass Euro Hunk must be. He’s probably got a woman in every city around the globe.
I decide I hate him.
Him and his perfect hair and his superhero’s jaw and his stupid cashmere overcoat.
Who even wears one of those, anyway? What is he, a count? Actually, he does look like he could be a count. I bet he’s totally entitled. I bet he has twelve mistresses and is cheap with his servants and beats his dog.
Like they do when I’m irritated, my lips pinch into the dried-prune shape that used to get on Brad’s last nerve. When I look up again, Euro Hunk is staring straight at me with intense scrutiny.
Shit.
With as much nonchalance as I can muster, I turn to the chair beside mine and dig through my carry-on for my sketch pad and pencil. Without lifting my gaze above my lap, I start to sketch. It’s something I’ve done since I was a little girl, and it never fails to calm and focus me.
Within moments, the lines of a beautiful gown are taking shape. Mermaid shaped, it’s skin revealing but chic, with a low scoop back, elaborate crystal-and-seed-pearl embellishments on the shoulder straps and bodice, and a long French-lace train.
I stop abruptly, horrified to realize I’m drawing my own wedding dress.
From behind me, a man says, “Che bella. You’re very talented.”
God, his voice. My panties erupt into flames.
As rich and buttery soft as his shoes, his voice also has a slight Italian accent that manages to sound suave and sexual at the same time. I bet he could make me orgasm just by whispering the phone book in my ear.
But I hate him, so forget that.
I say coolly, “Thank you,” and try to project a haughty don’t-disturb-me-you-perfect-stupid-dog-beating-Euro-jerk vibe. It doesn’t work.
“Are you an artist?”
“No.”
