best not to recoil like a wuss, a hundred impressions assault me: his height, his brooding expression, his rugged appearance.
His nearness.
Forging on, since we’re obviously hostage to this dead-end conversation, I ignore the apprehensive rolling inside my stomach. “So, how’s it going, Showtime ?” I use air quotes when I say his nickname, then immediately regret it.
His face remains expressionless.
“Why, it’s going splendid, Walk of Shame . Thanks for asking.” I have a feeling he’d use air quotes too, but his hands are full.
Since mine aren’t, I narrow my eyes and boldly plant both hands on my hips. Then I remove them but let them hang clenched at my sides. “Please don’t call me that.”
Caleb just shrugs his broad shoulders and studies me from under the brim of his ball cap, his dark eyes scanning my figure before they dart to the conveyer belt, where my bright, hot-pink box of tampons rolls gradually—excruciatingly slowly—toward the scanner.
In a time lapse.
At a snail’s pace.
In slow motion.
The slowest conveyer belt in the history of Express Lane checkouts. Slap some glitter, lipstick, and a spotlight on that box, and we’d have our own Broadway play called, Hello, cruel world! Abby has her period!
I draw in a breath, center on my core, and blurt out, “Are you stalking me?”
His hardened expression doesn’t waver. “Yup. And later I’m making a lampshade out of your skin.” His lips curve into a barely perceptible sneer, and he holds up several packages of heavy-duty sanding paper and a half-gallon of paint primer that he’s been clutching in his bear-like paws.
I twist my face into a grimace and roll my eyes. “Ha ha, very funny.”
When it’s finally my turn, the gray-haired woman behind the counter greets me, her hawk-like gaze shifting back and forth between Caleb and me, a smile playing at her wrinkly lips. “You find everything okay, hun?” She smacks her gum.
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.” I tensely shoot another frown at Caleb, who continues to regard me intensely, and swipe my debit card nervously through the digital card reader. Uncomfortable, I shake my head. What is with this guy ?
“Do you want your receipt with you or in the bag?” The woman asks, extending the white slip of paper.
“Oh, I don’t think she’ll be returning those ,” Caleb smirks, the muscles beneath his unshaven jaw lifting his full lips into the slightest trace of a smile. As if abruptly remembering his faux pas, that phantom smile is wiped from his face, replaced by another scowl.
Now, that ghost smile may have disappeared, but not quickly enough, for in the middle of that unhappy mouth, below the flawlessly indented cupid’s bow of those full, rich lips, are a set of straight, snowy-white teeth. And among that set of straight, snowy-white teeth?
A gap.
A gap, set in the center of those very wolfish teeth, making its debut for a fleeting moment. I wonder if I only imagined it. Because, guh! A gap.
And I caught a glimpse of it.
Dear… Lord…
A gap.
I freeze in place, holding the bag of feminine products and candy suspended mid-air, transfixed—struck dumb—by the sight of Caleb’s mouth.
He openly stares back at me, and the amused air of his expression grows surly in an instant , his mouth snapping shut like an angry crocodile’s. I actually hear his teeth lock down.
Even so, I continue my trancelike perusal of him, recognizing with horrifying clarity that I’m no better than any other warm-blooded female who’s ever lusted after our male counterparts solely based on physical attributes.
Attributes that will forever forward make me go weak in the knees… say stupid crap… stammer and stutter… agonize over my words.
Stare. Gawk. Daydream.
I have some friends who go absolutely mental for a set of washboard abs, while others can’t resist straight white teeth and an infectious, toothy smile. Dimples. Then there are the girls who cannot get enough broad
Angela White, Kim Fillmore, Lanae Morris