Cynthia thought...I am a professional; I can do this; I will not salivate over the customer nor tackle him to the grass and fornicate on the front lawn. “I’ll make you a sports coat.”
“You can do that?”
“They don’t fall off the sports coat tree, O’Fallon.” She put the tape to his wrist...warm, sturdy, lightly sprinkled with black curls of hair that continued up his arm. Maybe she should just make him a cake. Could she sew a cake because she sure couldn’t bake one.
The scent of musky soap and something fresh and male filled her head. She stretched the tape from wrist to broad shoulder, the one she knew intimately, the one covered in soft cotton now the one she wanted to touch. Swallowing a carnivorous whine she said, “Thirty-seven.”
“You don’t have to sew me a coat.”
“It makes us even. You can go your way and I go mine. You’ve heard of wireless, well I’m going manless. I don’t want them in my life and that includes you.” She could feel the heat from is skin under her fingertips. Every inch of Quaid firm, tight, totally hunky.
“Is this what you did in New York?”
“Huh?” She nearly dropped the tape measure. “Do what?”
“Make men’s clothes? Is that why you don’t like them? Got tired of dressing them?”
“Got tired of them messing up my life. It doesn’t start out that way but that’s what happens so I’m through with men.” She took the tape across his back, his very broad back that tapered to his waist and lean hips. Think of something else. “I had a loft, Creations by Cynthia. I designed business chic for the larger woman. So much of what’s out there in the bigger sizes has a masculine tone that make women look like Donald Trump with better hair and earrings.”
“So what happened?”
What happened was that she darn near melted into a blob being so close to Quaid. “Aaron, my dear husband, borrowed money against my business for his favorite pastime, Texas holdem’, and I’m not from Texas and he sure wasn’t holding me. The bank foreclosed on my loft and I foreclosed on Aaron.”
She walked around to Quaid’s front, keeping her eyes from his, looking at her flip-flops. If he realized how tuned on he made her it would be embarrassing. He was young and she wasn’t and that made her even more uncomfortable. What would he think? “I’m starting over at the ripe old age of forty.”
She held the white cloth tape against his chest, his muscles flexed. Sweat prickled at her neck, her hands now at this belt, his breath in her hair, her forehead grazing his shirt. “Mother and I are opening Ivy acres as a bed and breakfast and--”
“Cynthia?”
“And we should have customers and—“
“Cynthia!”
“What!” She snapped her head up looking straight into his eyes now the color of antique Chinese jade. He took her chin on his forefinger, his touch gentle and caring making her go all...soft. Soft and this man was not the way to start the day. She stood, her face to his.
This time he swallowed. “I have to get going. Now...right now.” His voice was strained and low. “Rory’s expecting me at the docks to help out. There’s no need for you to make me anything. You don’t owe me.”
He backed up but she grabbed the front of his shirt holding him still then kissed him full on his warm very receptive and incredibly yummy lips. God, he head great lips.
She stepped back, her eyes wide, and mouth open. She snapped it shut. “Oh, crap! I don’t want anything to do with you, Quaid O’Fallon. Nothing at all, I swear it. Stay away from me. Stay out of my business. Try and be...a little ugly.” She turned and raced up the steps like an embarrassed teenager and slammed the door shut behind her, leaning against it as if to keep what was on the outside from coming in...except it was the nutty woman inside causing all the trouble.