Great, just pretend you don’t know him. It’s better that way.
There’s a good chance I’m going to pass out.
“Yeah, you can help me all right,” he says, his eyes lusty. God, he has beautiful eyes. In fact, he has beautiful everything.
I don’t even try to stop my eyes as they travel over him. He’s standing there, looking devastating as hell, and I have the urge to rush over and lick him. Tazen is the picture of hot male. He’s tall, maybe six feet, and built like a brick wall. He’s all muscle, from the bulges at his shoulders to the biceps pressing against his shirt.
His longish brown hair is a mess, but in the best possible way, as it curls slightly near his collar. His eyes are the color of milk chocolate, melted milk chocolate. His skin is lightly tanned and he’s got killer dimples. There was a time when I stared at those dimples every time I watched his show. They are to die for. Tazen Watts has the power to make any girl’s panties melt off, even if they’re batting for the other team. He’s that beautiful.
I’d take a guess and say he is around thirty, and he is rocking it. Oh yes … rocking it.
“Well,” he says, his voice a low, thick husk, “you going to help me, angel, or are you going to stand there and give yourself wet panties checking me out.”
My eyes snap up and I splutter, “My panties are not w-w-w-wet.”
I’m stammering. Someone kill me.
He gives me a lazy, half grin. “That so?”
Oh boy.
“What can I do for you?” I say, trying to steady my shaky voice.
A dimple appears in his cheek. Well, now I have wet panties. “I’m here to see a dude named Quinn. Heard he’s running this,” he glances around, “old fucked-up place. Get him for me, will you, love?”
Oh. He. Did. Not.
My back snaps straight and all my attraction for him flies out the window. He just insulted my garage, and worse, he insulted me. I hate being called love, and more than that, I hate arrogant men that assume that it must be a man running the place, because it couldn’t possibly be a woman. I study him and then grin. “Of course, I’ll just go and fetch…” I trail off and run my fingers down my cleavage. “Him.”
His eyes drop to my fingers hovering over the swells of my breasts, and I want to slap him.
Tazen who?
Asshole.
“You do that.”
I turn and with a grin, I untie my coveralls, pull them up over my shoulders, wipe any emotion off my face and turn back to him with my hand extended. “Hi there, I’m Quinn. How may I help you today?”
He blinks.
Then he narrows his eyes.
Then he bursts out laughing.
“Right, good one.”
I don’t smile and I watch as his eyes travel to the name embroidered onto my coveralls. Then they widen and he mutters, “Fuck.”
“Yes, that would be an appropriate word,” I point out. “Now, what exactly brings you into my garage, Tazen Watts? I’m sure people like you have plenty of better things to do than come into my old, fucked-up garage. Right?”
His eyes skim over my face and my skin prickles. “People like me, angel?”
He did not say angel in the loving kind of way this time.
“Yes, people like you. I understand my little space isn’t up to standards for a man like you, but you’re here and obviously you have a reason. I want to know what that reason is. The fact that you came in here, and insulted me by insulting my garage and assuming that I was a man has already pissed me off, so make it quick, will you? I have no time for sexist pigs.”
Now his brows shoot up. “Sexist?”
I lean in close. “Yes, sexist.”
“You have a name that can be read wrong, it’s hardly being sexist.”
He has a point.
I say nothing.
“Why are you here?”
He crosses his arms and it takes all my strength not to stare at the bulging muscles that pop out from that very movement. “I’ve heard this joint is for sale. I’m interested.”
Say what?
My body flinches and my eyes widen as I let his words sink in. For sale? No. He must have it wrong.
“I think you’ve misunderstood, Mr. Watts. This place isn’t for sale.”
“Tazen,” he says, his voice a low growl. “My name is Tazen, angel. Mr. Watts makes me feel, well, old.” His eyes drop to my lips. “And I can assure you that I’m far, far from old.”
I shiver, but manage to force out my next words.
“My place isn’t for sale, Tazen.”
His teeth flash as he smiles over my use of his name. I hold his eyes, my glare not wavering.
“You really are a tiny thing, aren’t you? This place is adequately named, wouldn’t you say so, Pixie?”
My blood boils.
“Don’t ever,” I growl, stepping closer, “call me that again.”
“I wonder,” he says, lifting his perfect freaking hand and scratching his chin. “How well you really run this place? I mean, obviously you’re not doing a good job … from what I’ve heard.”
I’m going to lose my shit in about three point five seconds.