Case for Seduction. Ann Christopher
end of the line, his morning ruined. Well, not entirely ruined, because he could still get a gallon-sized cup of coffee, but it just wouldn’t be the same.
“Morning, Jake.” The last of the customers in front of him got their drinks and moved aside, revealing the pretty barista behind the counter. She’d been making eyes at him the last several times he was there, and he felt terrible for not knowing her name by now. Trying to be discreet, he checked her badge. Ashley, it said. “I saved the last one for you. I figured you’d be needing it.” She held up a pumpkin scone on a plate.
Torn, Jake worked up a grin that he hoped wasn’t too enthusiastic. On the one hand, thank God he’d get his scone. On the other hand, Ashley was now giving him a quick once-over that stripped away the shorts and
T-shirt he was wearing and, while it was always flattering to be noticed, he had no desire to be noticed by Ashley.
Or by most of the females he encountered these days, come to think of it, which was strange. He’d gotten to the unfamiliar point in his life where he preferred to sit quietly and alone in his house, watching ESPN and prepping for his latest trial, instead of hanging out with his brothers and catching the panties women threw their way. The whole club scene had started to exhaust him. The drinks. The dancing. The hookups. The aftermath, which was always awkward to one degree or another.
When had he lost his taste for women who were young, beautiful and eager?
Why would he rather go sit at a table and organize his thoughts for the staff barbecue he was hosting at his house in a few weeks than stand here and flirt with Ashley?
Something was wrong with him, clearly.
But that was no reason to be rude.
“Thanks, Ashley.” Extending his hand across the counter to accept the scone on its plate, he pretended he didn’t feel the lingering brush of her fingers against his. “You just kept my day from turning into a disaster.”
“Well.” She preened as she fixed his coffee, tossing her shiny brown hair over one shoulder and giving him a smile that promised the sun, moon, stars and a ham sandwich if he crooked his little finger at her. “You owe me, don’t you?”
“Absolutely,” he told her, keeping his expression pleasant but distant and his little finger uncrooked. He reached into his pocket, grabbed a bill—it was a ten, alas, but oh, well; he’d chalk it up to money well spent—and handed it to her. “Thanks. Keep the change.”
He turned away, aware of her faltering grin, and headed for a table in the most distant corner available, close to the window. He’d just set down his breakfast and was about to pull out a chair and sit, when it hit him: he’d forgotten to pick up copies of The New York Times and the Philadelphia Daily News while he was up at the counter.
He’d have to go back.
Unfortunately.
He wheeled around, determined to make it quick, while Ashley was restocking the cream and whatnot and— Shit.
He plowed straight into someone.
That someone hit the floor with a nasty thud.
Books went flying. A cappuccino mug and saucer shattered with a wet splatter, sending hot coffee in all directions. A slice of lemon cake skittered across the tiles and came to a stop beneath his table. Every head in the place swiveled in their direction.
“Sorry,” he began automatically, his cheeks ablaze with embarrassment. Way to go, Hamilton. Why not just drive a backhoe through the plate-glass window and be done with it? Dropping to a squat, he started to help the person—it was a woman, he realized—gather her things. “I didn’t mean to—”
Whoa.
An irritated and striking gaze—not quite gray, but not quite green, either, rimmed by a thick fan of black lashes—flicked up at him, emptying his brain of all rational thought.
“Hey!” Her husky murmur of a voice slid right under his skin, making nerve endings tighten all up and down his bare arms. “Watch where you’re go...”
The end of her sentence trailed off as she got a good look at him. Her eyes widened with what he assumed was feminine appreciation.
He got that a lot. Women found him attractive, and he knew it. No big deal.
Usually, though, it didn’t make him feel hot and flustered, a feeling he best remembered from sixth grade, when Yvette Connor passed him a note after English class.
He and the woman stared at each other for an electric moment.
Mid-twenties, he decided. She wasn’t wearing makeup and didn’t need it, not with those eyes, that smooth olive skin and that pouty berry mouth. Her hair swung in sleek black curtains, and her tank top dipped in front as she looked away and scurried to pick up her books, revealing a hint of cleavage that would be right at home in a Playboy centerfold.
Her scent was sweet and musky—vanilla tinged with sensual woman, two of his favorite things in the world.
His brain was slow to return, but eventually it slammed back into his body and got to work again.
“Sorry,” he said. “Usually I’m much more graceful than that. The Dance Theatre keeps begging me to join, but I don’t want to make the other dancers look bad.” He shrugged. “You know how it is.”
Lips curling, she eyed his table, where the scone waited for him. “That explains the power breakfast.”
He grinned. She grinned back, and that dimpled flash of white dazzled him like a pound of diamonds glittering in the sun.
But before he lapsed into more staring, he gave himself a swift mental kick along with a reminder to get his head back in the game.
“You’re not injured, are you?”
“Too soon to tell.” At this point, she had all her books and there was no reason for them to remain crouched on the floor. “You could help me up.”
If that meant he could touch her? Hell to the yeah. “My pleasure.”
He surged to his feet and extended his hand. She took it. And as her warm palm slid across his, he felt the charge all through his body. Awareness. Electricity. Chemistry.
Focus, Hamilton.
With a gentle tug, he pulled her up and then, suddenly, they were face-to-face, with only her books between them.
Dropping her gaze and her hand, she backed away first. “Thanks.”
“So.” He tried not to check her out, but it was hard because he was a man and she was smokin’. About a head shorter than he was, she had the toned arms and shoulders of someone who took care of herself in the gym...khaki cargo pants...manicured toes in flat sandals...no wedding ring. There was no unobtrusive way to lean around her and check out her ass, but he wanted to and bookmarked the idea in his mind, not that there was any chance of forgetting. “Let me replace your breakfast. Least I can do.”
“That would be great.” She kept her gaze lowered, which really wasn’t working for him, because he was getting the distinct impression she didn’t want to send him any “I’m available” vibes. Was she here with someone, then? Was the lucky punk in the john washing his hands at this very second? Or had Jake mistaken the look she’d just given him? “Thanks.”
“Cappuccino, right? Lots of that frothy stuff?”
She dimpled and flashed him a quick look. “That would be milk. Whole milk.”
“Well, it’s up to you how you ruin your coffee. And lemon cake?”
“Excuse me,” Ashley the barista said sourly, edging between them with a broom, dustpan and mop. “I better clean this up.”
“Thanks, Ashley,” he said.
Ashley, who’d apparently undergone an attitude transplant in the past couple minutes, split her assessing gaze