Or some sunscreen. It feels as if my nose will be peeling come tomorrow. I touch it gingerly and wince.
Inside the store it’s blessedly air-conditioned, and I let the cool air blow on my flushed cheeks as the door closes behind me.
My hair is a frazzled mess, and I pat it down in a desperate effort to look presentable as I approach the counter. I easily find some ibuprofen, but then realize there are three people ahead of me, and I check out the small make-up display to distract myself while waiting.
Gigi always says I should wear more make-up. She says my eyes are pretty and that I should outline them more.
Gigi is crazy.
I put down the lipstick I was checking out—the hue is called Flamingo, which makes me grin—and catch a guy’s gaze on me. He’s standing second in the small line, and he’s handsome in a classic, clear-cut way with his wavy brown hair and green eyes, the five-o’clock shadow on his cheeks, the wiry frame filling out his navy-blue shirt nicely.
A cold shiver runs over my skin when his gaze lifts to my face, and his mouth tilts in a smile.
I look away, flustered.
By the time I gather my wits enough to look back at him, the line has moved, and a broad-shouldered guy is walking by me, his shaggy black hair and beard registering after the longest second in history.
Matthew Hansen. What are the odds?
Then again, it is a small town. Nothing fateful here. Just everyday life happening.
He doesn’t seem to think so, judging by the way his brows draw together when he notices me. He stops.
“You,” he says.
It sounds like an accusation. And yet his gaze holds no heat, only surprise.
“Mr. Hansen.” I pull my shoulders back. “Fancy meeting you here.”
I’m standing so close to him.
Way too close. He’s so tall and broad-shouldered he’s like a wall.
He says nothing, just staring at me, the darkness in his eyes swallowing me whole. I’m so aware of his height, the big muscles in his arms, his long dark lashes, it’s insane.
I’m wringing my hands together, and I make myself stop. “Look, Mr. Hansen…” I have to say something sensible. “How are the kids? Have you found a nanny for them yet?”
But this was the wrong call, because his expression shutters. “Yeah.”
That one word hits me hard. “You hired someone else?”
He nods and pushes dark hair out of his eyes. He’s still looking at me. His gaze is like a laser beam, passing over my face, then moving lower, and a wave of desire hits me, knotting up my insides.
Crap.
Christ, what’s the matter with me? For some reason, Matt Hansen has my whole body clenching with need just by standing there.
Why does my body react to this bear of a man when it remains numb and cold when other guys look at me?
When he passed me over for the job, not even deigning to talk to me, and went and hired someone else the next day?
God.
“That’s a pity,” I whisper, deciding to cut my losses and go back home. I just need to rest a little, cool down, and maybe inspiration will hit, and I will magically know what to do.
Adjusting the strap of my purse on my shoulder, I turn blindly to go and promptly trip over my own feet.
Man, I just can’t catch a break these days, can I?
But I don’t hit the floor. An arm like a steel band is wrapped around my waist, and that scent of spicy male musk is everywhere.
My heart is hammering. I sag in his hold, my legs like rubber.
Without a word, he sets me down on my feet and pulls the strap of my purse back up on my shoulder, a strangely intimate, gentle gesture.
Then he bends over to gather the small bag he dropped while saving my ass from meeting the linoleum, and the reality of what just happened hits me.
Matthew Hansen caught me.
And I can’t catch my breath. My heart is galloping a thousand miles an hour.
He watches me a few moments longer, as if making sure I’m not about to topple over again, those dark eyes strangely mesmerizing.
Then he rolls one massive shoulder in a shrug and starts walking once more toward the door.
“Thank you,” I finally find the presence of mind to call after him and take a step in his direction.
But by then he’s already gone.
Trudging back home, kicking off my shoes the moment I pass through the door, I head straight for the bathroom, only to find it occupied.
“Gigi!” I bang on the door. “I need to shower.”
“Five minutes!” she yells back.
Gigi’s five minutes usually last two hours. The house is otherwise empty, Mom and Merc not answering when I call out their names.
With a sigh, I walk back out and sit on the steps of the porch, trying to find my calm center.
Something will come up, I tell myself. An opening in one of the stores. I tend to panic easily, lose my patience when things aren’t going my way.
Which means I spent most of my childhood and teenage years raging and waging war with the world. Things rarely went our way—what with Mom losing her job time and again, with Merc getting sick all the time and Gigi going through a shoplifting phase that had Mom in tears.
And as for me… I had my phases, too. Like that day when I left home and started walking along the highway, not knowing or caring where I was going.
Or when I took Mom’s decrepit car and drove into a wall. I’d been going real slow, thank God. I came out of it just fine—but the car was a total loss. No idea how that is possible, but there you go.
Back then I really wanted to escape. From the bullying, the hopeless trudge of everyday routine.
And now the mere thought of leaving has me breaking out in hives.
Funny how we change over the years. How our priorities change, our perspective shifts. The idea of not being here when my family needs me is unthinkable. The idea of not being present to look after them, to keep an eye on them, to watch my brother and sister grow into adults, finish school, find their way…
I rub my bare arms. The sun is sinking low over the roofs and trees, and the breeze is drying the sweat on my back, cooling me down.
Someone is walking down the sidewalk. He stops a few feet away from me.
“Hey, I know you,” he says, and smiles.
The sun is behind him, lighting up his brown curls, casting his handsome face in shadow. “I’m not sure…” I start even as I realize that he does look familiar.
“Today. At the drugstore.” He shoves his hands in his pant pockets and tilts his head to the side. “I was waiting in line, and I saw you.”
“Right.” I nod and look down at my hands, grinning. “You have a good memory.”
“Not really. But it’s easy to remember a pretty girl like you.”
I glance up at him, surprised at the rush of pleasure and the heat flooding my cheeks. “Thanks.”
Hey, every girl likes to hear she’s pretty now and then, right? Especially after years spent wearing frigging braces and being called names.
Yeah, Zipper Lips wasn’t the worst of my nicknames back then. Things improved since I removed the metal from my mouth, but I’m still the ugly duckling in this story.