Parker
Istare out the window of my shop. The rush is over for the day. The tourists will all be heading out for dinner soon. It was busy for a Wednesday. Actually, it’s been busy every day, and the thought makes me smile.
A motorcycle roars by on the road out front and I sit up straight, peering out the plate glass window. The rider, face obscured by a helmet, keeps rolling down the road and I hate that the sound made my heart race. Stupid hormones. I can’t believe I just got excited by the thought of seeing Lukas.
Cocky douche.
I mean, I get it. I’m not everyone’s cup of tea, but he didn’t have to wink at me like he did, adding insult to injury. He made me feel like a joke, and there’s not much in the world that makes me feel worse. My cheeks burn just thinking about it.
Standing up and stepping out from behind the counter, I shake it off. I did nothing wrong. It’s not my fault he was rude. Eyeing myself in the mirror, I fix my hair and straighten my shoulders. I won’t let him get to me. And I won’t get excited every time I hear a motorcycle outside.
Maybe.
I work my way around the shop, dusting the shelves and straightening books. I’m in the back of the shop when I hear the bell twinkle over the front door.
“Be right with you!” I call out as I shelve a rogue book.
“No rush,” comes a deep, teasing voice from the front. Not the kind of voice I’m used to in here. My clientele is almost all women with the occasional husband dragged along to sulk quietly in the corner.
Peeking out around the edge of the shelf, my eyes go wide. The man has his back to me, jeans and a tight black t-shirt showcasing broad shoulders and a really great butt. It’s official. My love of romance books has turned me into a total pervert. Peeping on customers from behind shelves, I think, shaking my head at myself. Cute rear end or no, that’s just wrong. I’m probably creeping on somebody’s husband.
Still scolding myself, I step out to help him but then he turns, looking around the shop idly and there’s no mistaking that face, even in profile. Ducking back behind the shelf, I clutch the book in my hands to my chest like it could shield me from the sexiest, most infuriating man on the planet.
What in the sweet hell is Lukas Donovan doing here? Surely, he’s lost... right?
Jesus. Just because I like looking at him doesn’t mean I want to see him, especially after the humiliation of last weekend. I wonder how long I can hide back here before he either leaves or comes looking for me. I can’t make it to the backroom without him seeing me.
He places his hands on my counter, leaning forward and making the muscles in his forearms flex. I have to swallow the whimper I feel in my throat. It appears he’s going to make himself right at home and do his absolute best to make me melt in the process. I don’t see any way out of this… I’m going to have to interact with him.
I steel myself. I will not give him the satisfaction of knowing how my heart races at the sight of him. Do I yearn to lean into that broad chest and see if he smells as good as he looks? Hell yes.
But I am a professional, dammit.
I wince as I step out from behind the shelf. I’m not great with men in general and I have a sneaking suspicion that this could go very badly.
Lukas glances over and grins at me as I get closer. I veer to the side, heading behind the counter, and putting as much space between us as I can. All while doing my very best to ignore the way his devilish smile makes my panties damp.
I stare at him for a second, trying to make my mouth work right.
“Wh-What can I help you with, Mr. Donovan?” I ask, pleased that by the end of the sentence I hardly sound breathy at all.
Lukas laughs softly. “You can call me Lukas, you know. Do you call my sisters Ms. Donovan?”
“No. But they’re my friends. I don’t really know you, do I?” I reply.
“We could be friends,” he says casually. His eyes flick down over my body, and I get lost in him for one pulse-thumping second as heat flares through my body, equal parts desire, and anger. Friends? Really? He has some nerve! I mean yeah, he’s pretty and I enjoy looking at him… maybe even fantasize about the way his lips would feel trailing down my neck… but I’m not exactly dying to be friends with the kind of douche canoe who embarrasses women for fun.
He taps his fingertips on the worn book on the counter, eyeing the glossy cover and the tattooed, shirtless man on a motorcycle. I snatch it up and tuck it under the counter.
“That’s not for sale,” I tell him quickly.
“You like guys on bikes?” he asks, lips quirked. His green eyes are practically dancing with mischief.
Unbelievable! Did he come to my shop just to make fun of me? I press my lips together so I don’t say something rude. Anger spreads through me and I take several breaths through my nose, trying to calm myself. It doesn’t work well, but I have a modicum of control when I answer.
“Not even a little. That was just for book club,” I say, jutting out my chin.
He grins and squints one eye at me like he doesn’t believe a word I’m saying. “But I thought you picked the books. That’s what my sister said.”