As for me, I’m not much into guys in fancy suits. So when this rangy golden god has me gripping the table to steady myself, I know something has flipped a switch. Holy Moses and a burning bush.
Wearing expensively casual linen and leaning against the bar like he owns it, he raises his amber drink in our direction. His relaxed half grin oozes charming bad boy. I find myself both attracted and repulsed. If I had to choose, I’d say the fact that he’s staring at me like a farmhand eyeing a side of bacon after a long day of work might tip the balance more toward “attracted.”
I feel so awkward that I never know how to respond when guys send drinks ov
er to the table.
I follow Stella’s lead and take what’s offered. I raise my glass and politely nod and smile in a way that surely looks completely dorkalicious.
Oh no, he’s coming to the table. I hiss, “Stella, do I have spinach in my teeth?” I show her my teeth and she laughs.
“Sweetie, you didn’t order a salad, so no.”
Lifting one hand to reveal an expensive, ruggedly beautiful watch set against his tanned wrist, he points his index finger at Stella and says in a thick French accent, “Sailboat by Benton. Christie’s, 2015.” The first words out of the man’s mouth, I could not have guessed in a hundred million guesses.
I wonder for a moment if he’s experiencing an aphasia episode. Knitting my brows together in confusion, I glance at Stella, ready to grab her and run away from the crazy man.
Stella replies. “Yes, that was me! How did you know what I bought at that auction? Do I know you?”
He extends his hand to Stella. “Fabian Faberge. You wouldn’t know me; I’m only a lowly art dealer. But I remember you. You outbid me on that piece.”
She speaks through a mouthful of breakfast pastry. “Did I? Sorry about that.”
Even though his name sounds completely phony, I gotta hand it to him, he is smooth as thousand thread count sheets.
“May I join you?”
Oh my god, Stella, do not let him sit down. I can’t help but think he’s playing at something. But also, please do let him, because he smells amazing. That scent and that mop of hair has me considering how uncouth it would be if I jumped his bones right here at the table.
She raises her eyebrows and shrugs. “It’s fine, as long as you don’t try to steal my croissants.”
Fabian chuckles and says he wouldn’t dream of it. As he takes a seat at our table with the ease of Paul Newman, he removes his authentic Aviator sunglasses and slides them into his jacket pocket. Pushing his sun-bleached mop out of his eyes, he turns to me with a thousand watt grin.
I extend my hand. “Laney.”
He doesn’t seem at all bothered by the fact that he’s not getting my last name. He takes my offered hand in his and kisses the backs of my fingers while watching my face. “Enchanté.”
His voice against my skin sends sparks all over my hand that travel up my arm. How is this working on me? It feels like it’s right out of a movie.
His whole look and demeanor makes me think of the old money class who are on perpetual vacation. In my right mind, I should not like this person, but that subtle wink when he lets go of my hand tells me he sees everything going on inside me, all over my face. “May I ask how you lovely ladies are enjoying your vacation?”
Stella, who is the nicer one of us, goes on to tell him a little too much information, if you ask me: we’re here with her husband and two daughters and another family friend, we’ve rented cottages on the water about half a mile down the beach from here, we’re here for just a few more days, and it’s her and Luke’s wedding anniversary soon.
I give her my wide eyes and try to tell her through ESP that she must have lost her mind.
Fabian congratulates her on her marriage, and then says, “If I may be so bold, I would love to offer you ladies and both of your husbands an anniversary gift of a free round of golf or a spa treatment here at this resort. The owner is an old friend of mine.”
Smooth, I think. Though there are worse ways to finagle my marital status out of me. “Luke will definitely take you up on the golf. Thank you,” says Stella.
He turns and waits for me to speak, smiling and running the pad of his thumb over his lip, like he’s trying to remind me that those gorgeous lips were just touching my skin.
“I’m not married,” I say, because some damn part of me wants this total stranger to know that.
His eyes roam over my hair, my shoulders, my eyes and my lips.
“Georgia O’Keeffe,” he says almost under his breath.
I narrow my eyes at him. “No, sorry. I’ve never been to an art auction before, and I’ve certainly never purchased an O’Keeffe.”