Her eyes are green, maybe hazel, and now that I have a moment to observe, her glasses are actually tortoiseshell with gold trim around the edges. Surreptitiously, I note she isn’t wearing a wedding ring. Actually, her hands are bare of any jewelry. Small gold studs wink in her ears behind the wisps of hair framing her face, which is classically beautiful without a single speck of makeup. Not even mascara or eyeshadow.
Just fresh, clean skin and clear eyes staring at me.
“Welcome to Clarke’s Corner,” she says brightly. “Can I help you find something?”
“Um…” I say, drawing an absolute blank. I can’t very well say, No, thank you… I came in here to hit on you because I found you absolutely beautiful as I was running by.
I mean, I could say that.
And I have done that on occasion when I met a woman I was immensely attracted to. I’m no slouch in the looks department, so I’ve never found beating around the bush to be all that satisfying. More of the type of guy who goes for what he wants.
Then, it hits me. I throw a thumb over my shoulder toward the interior of the store. “Actually, I was walking by—”
“Kind of sweaty to just be walking by,” she observes. “Are you sure you’re okay? Do you need to sit down or anything?”
Sharp girl. And also one for honesty, it seems.
I grin, popping my panty-dropping dimples, holding my hands up in mock surrender. “Okay… got me. I was out running, and I’d never been this way before. When I saw this store, I remembered I have a wedding to go to this weekend and I haven’t bought a present yet.”
Total lie.
Well, sort of.
There is indeed a wedding. Erik, one of my teammates, is getting married to his fiancée, Blue, but I have already bought them a gift. I have no problem buying a second one, though.
“Did you have anything in mind, or would you like some suggestions?”
“I’ll take suggestions,” I say, leveling her with a sheepish but hopefully charming smile. “Not the best shopper.”
The woman moves over to a wall unit that houses a few interesting pieces of pottery, then chooses a vase the color of burnt cinnamon with dark yellow swirling through it. “How about something like this?”
Taking it from her, I pretend to study it thoughtfully before I shake my head. “I don’t think this is to their taste.”
In truth, it very well could be. I’m not good at stuff like this, but if I accept the first thing she shows me, then the conversation is over and I’ll have to leave.
She next shows me a pair of brass candlesticks. “Too formal,” I say.
A porcelain picture frame. “Too feminine.”
A music box. “Also too feminine.”
Next up is a fancy wine opener. Well, that’s actually a really good gift. Reluctantly, I nod with a smile. “It’s perfect.”
“Awesome,” she replies, moving past me to get to the register. She smells of vanilla with an undertone of what might be oranges. It’s pretty, and I can’t quite remember the last time a woman’s fragrance appealed to me.
“Would you like me to gift wrap this?” she asks.
“That would be awesome,” I reply, because anything that will give me the opening I need to ask her out is all right with me.
I am most definitely asking her out.
I mean, she’s hot, but she has this nerdy quality going on with the glasses and innocent fragrance. Her clothes are slightly baggy, not the form-fitting, bare-all concoctions most women I hook up with wear.
She’s like a breath of fresh air and this perplexes me, because I’ve never been overly attracted to her type before.
“So how long have you been working here?” I ask genially as she reaches under a cabinet behind the register to pull out a long bin with wrapping paper in it.
“I own the place,” she replies without looking up. In her tone, there’s amusement I would never even consider she was the owner, along with pride in herself that she owns this place.
“Wow,” I reply, surprised and impressed. I turn around, taking in the store once more. She must be doing okay since this is a high-rent commercial district of Phoenix.
“Opened it about six months ago,” she replies, rummaging through the bin. “Lifelong dream and all.”
“Good for you.” I lean on the checkout counter, watching her with appreciation while her back is turned. “So, I take it you’re the ‘Clarke’ of ‘Clarke’s Corner’?”
Without warning, she glances over her shoulder and I manage to tear my eyes off her ass just in time. “That’s me. Clarke Webber.”
“Aaron Wylde,” I reply in turn. I watch carefully to see if there’s a glimmer of recognition, since I am a famous hockey player, after all. But she didn’t seem to recognize my face when I walked in, or, if she did, she played it super cool.