Then I see it. Miles of long, smooth, tanned legs. She looks like she might be headed out to the beach because she wears a loose white tank top with a bright blue bra or bikini top that peeks out from the side where the tank top hangs open. Her tan extends up and under a pair of frayed at the edges shorts that don’t have to be tight to make my pulse race.
Blood leeches from my brain and I can barely think. I haven’t even seen her face and I could chisel a stone statue with my dick. Her hand lands on a round melon and she turns enough to give me a profile view. Damn if she isn’t the full package. Her face is as pretty as the rest of her. Strands of golden blond hair mixed with honey brown are pulled into some messy knot at the base of her neck. I find myself tethered to her like a dog on a leash. Unconsciously, I begin walking towards her.
When I get the full view, she isn’t as exotically stunning as the woman in the club last night, yet I find myself way more attracted to the one in front of me.
Her hand is still on the melons and she’s squeezing them, or so it appears.
“Excuse me,” I say.
Startled hazel eyes flecked with gold meet mine as a smile grows on her lips. “Yes?”
Her voice is like a hand stroking my dick and I have to have her in my bed tonight.
“I’m going to have to write you up for molesting the fruit. It’s unseemly with kids in the vicinity. I’ll need your name.”
This is where she can shut me down because she thinks I’m corny as hell or she’ll give me a shot by telling me her name.
“Hmm,” she says taking her hand off the melon in feigned shock. “I could give you a fake name.”
“You could or I could ask for ID.”
She giggles and that mouth. It takes the strength of ten men to keep my eyes leveled on hers and not take in her extraordinary chest. I wait a few seconds before she says, “I’m Samantha Calhoun, but my friends call me Sam.”
She holds out her hand. I take it and lift it to my lips. “Nice to meet you, Samantha. I’m Ben Rhoades.”
“Ben? Is that short for Benjamin?”
“Ah,” I say reluctantly letting go of her hand. “That’s a long story. One you can only hear if you agree to go out to dinner with me.”
She raises her brows. “Is that so?”
I shrug.
“Okay, I think I want to hear this long story.”
“Tonight?” I ask because I want her in my bed so badly, I’m almost ready to beg. And isn’t that some shit? If not for my jeans, my dick would have popped out and told her himself.
“I can’t. I have plans.”
Of course she does. I remember it’s Saturday. I probably look like a total loser for suggesting it. “Monday?”
“Monday?” she repeats.
“Yes, I have a thing tomorrow, and who has plans on a Monday?”
She smiles. “Monday’s good.”
She pulls out her phone and I have déjà vu for a second remembering last night with the exotic beauty in the private bathroom. We exchange phone numbers and I promise to call her with the details.
“Great,” she says and her smile is beautiful.
I turn up the wattage on mine, then leave her after I say, “I should report you to the Produce Manager, but consider it a warning this time.”
She giggles again and I know I’m in. I head towards the dairy department and I don’t look back. I don’t chase women. Never have and I won’t start now. If this doesn’t work out between us, there are plenty of other women in the world to satisfy my needs.
I look again at the melon I’m still caressing. Oh, the aroma. Control yourself, Sam. It’s a fucking melon. Not a penis, for Pete’s sake!
The dark-haired, gray-eyed god struts away from me as I ogle his goods. Holy melon I’m a felon! The man with the sexiest voice known to womankind who interrupted my fruitporn could possibly be my total destruction as I stand staring, shell-shocked. He is every bit as panty-melting from behind as he was from the front.
Messy-as-hell hair, scruffy face, and a smile that would stop a nuclear war, and he accused me of molesting the damn fruit! How the hell did he know? But he’s the kind of man who would make me lose my normally in-control-of-everything-Sam-self. What exactly was that all about? And how cliché is this? Meeting in the produce section of the Whole Foods, of all things? And then he asks me out and we exchange numbers. Jesus tomatoes. I just handed out my number to him like a piece of candy. No background check. Nothing. He leaves and I’m left standing here, massaging the melon like it’s one of his balls. And does it ever feel good. Not as velvety smooth as a penis, mind you.
My phone rings shaking me out of my stupor.
“You’re still coming, right?” Lauren asks.
“Um, me, miss a day at the beach? What do you think?”
“Where the hell are you then?”
“I took a small detour,” I say, tossing the melon in my basket. “I’m at Whole Foods grabbing some stuff for munchies. I’m sure your parents don’t want us to eat them out of house and home.”
“Oh, that. You know they always have enough food for an army platoon.”
“Too bad. I’m here anyway.”