Or maybe it wasn’t.
I reasoned that it might not be impossible for that particular man to have that effect over any living, breathing, hot-blooded woman. Or man, for that matter.
But it couldn’t be reasoned why a man like Gage—who was not a biker version of a Greek god, unless you were talking about Hades—would be looking at me like he was right freaking now.
With pure, unadulterated desire.
Me.
No man looked at me like that. Especially not a man like Gage.
As mentioned before, I wasn’t ugly. I was trim and fit because I ate well and exercised slightly over the recommended amount for a woman my age. I took care of my skin, so it was smooth, blemishless, and lineless. Pale to the point of alabaster because sun protection was key.
Skin cancer killed almost ten thousand people per year.
I moisturized.
I went to the salon every eight weeks, had my mousy brunette hair touched up with some subtle honey highlights, got the ends trimmed, and light layers added to frame my face. But not too much, because I liked my hair long. Even if I rarely wore it down.
That day I had only just managed to carefully cover the fading bruise underneath my eye with an amount of concealer I’d never used, nor really needed. And since I hadn’t used so much in the past, I’d taken longer to do my makeup than I allotted in my morning routine. Usually it was a dab of concealer, a swipe of blush—which I didn’t even rightly need because my face flushed on its own. Filled in my eyebrows, which I didn’t strictly need either, since they were full and dark and the perfect shape—not coming from me, but from the many beauticians I’d seen to get them shaped. A simple blending of eyeshadows, light because anything else made me look like a skunk. I’d perfected my ‘usual’ thanks to YouTube makeup tutorials. I itched to go wild and glam like the women—and men—in the tutorials did, yearning to let myself jump out of my carefully structured box.
But I never did.
So that day was no exception, even with more concealer than normal. I had mascara and a pale pink lip gloss but nothing else.
It was the ultimate ‘no makeup’ look.
But since it had taken longer, I hadn’t yanked my hair up into the tight bun it was usually in for work. It was still tumbling in soft waves around my exposed shoulders.
I had yet to put a cardigan over the sleeveless blouse I’d tucked into my pale pink pencil skirt. It was modest, dipped only slightly at my chest, but not enough to show any of my cleavage, and was only a slightly darker shade of pink than my pencil skirt—which fit me well, but ended below my knees.
I was barefoot, my sensibly heeled pumps waiting for me in their spot in my closet, high enough to be flattering on my slim and short figure, but not enough to be uncomfortable.
It was my usual. And it was safe. Bordering on boring. I wasn’t the girl next door. I was the girl who lived way down the road from her. The one men might pause their glance on, but not fricking feast their gaze on me like Gage.
My knees trembled at the way his eyes moved up, down, up again. He focused on my hair for the longest time, his hands shaking at his sides as if he was holding himself back from touching my tousled strands.
And then his gaze moved down again. Stuttered on my chest area, as if there was something to see there. As if I wasn’t wearing a sensible cotton bra and he could see my nipples underneath the thin silk of my blouse.
Then his eyes moved farther down.
All the way to my brightly painted toes.
It was my one treat on my Sunday pedicure. Everything else in my wardrobe was muted, and the colors on my fingers were either a soft beige or a blush pink. But I always went crazy with my toes. Glitters. Neons. That week it was Barbie pink with little silver crystals on my big toes.
I was equally glad and embarrassed at my strict habit of going to get a pedicure every week. Glad because Gage was staring at my feet with a concentrated intensity. And though I didn’t particularly like people looking at my feet—who did?—they were nice feet. Because of my weekly pedicures.
But I was embarrassed because a muscled, murderous, hotter-than-sin outlaw biker was currently staring at my hot pink, bedazzled toes.
And then he was staring at my mouth.
With a different kind of intensity.
One that had my inner thighs throbbing.
But still, he didn’t speak.
“How do you know where I live?” I squeaked.
Yes, squeaked.
Like a mouse suddenly discovering it had vocal cords.
Mental forehead slap.
He folded his arms. “It’s Amber. I’m me. Not fuckin’ hard,” he clipped, his voice full of anger, as if it was my fault that I was talking to him, as if he wasn’t the one knocking on my door, forcing this conversation.