Losing Control (Kerr Chronicles #1)(4)
Author: Jen Frederick

And there’s so much to appreciate—from his trim waist to the wide shoulders encased in a gray wool suit coat that fits him so well I wonder if he was sewn into it. Tiny stitches on the lapel mark its expensive provenance. A darkly tanned neck gives way to a firm chin and lush lips.

“Bee stung” is the description that I’ve heard used to describe the same look on supermodels. Those lips are about the only soft thing on his face. Those lips and a hollow on the side of his face that appears when those plush lips curve upward. The divot is too shallow and wide to be termed a dimple, but it’s as devastating.

One hand is stuck in a pocket and his jacket is pushed behind the hand to reveal a flat stomach. No desk paunch on this guy. There’s an intense sexual aura about him. The nonchalant stance, the dark gaze, the lush lips are all an invitation to rip the buttons of his snowy white shirt apart and see exactly what lies underneath all of those fabrics.

In the guise of giving my chin a scratch, I stick a thumb under my jaw to make sure my mouth is closed. This guy? He can practice lines with me all he wants.

His half-smile widens knowingly. “Kind of a beautiful day to be kicking doors down.”

It’s obvious he’s well acquainted with his effect on women. Too bad I can’t sneak a picture for my mom. A verbal description is not going to do him justice.

“If I can’t deliver my packages, then I won’t have time left to enjoy said beautiful day.” I lift the Wiggin’ Out delivery to show him.

He nods and pushes away from the post he’s leaning against. “I’m in complete agreement. I say we blow our responsibilities off and head to the park.”

He bends his arm and pulls up his suit jacket sleeve to reveal a thick watch with exposed gears. It looks expensive, too. He’s too well put together to be an actor, and they don’t wear suits unless they’re on stage or being interviewed by a late night show host. His attire is more suited to downtown in the financial district where pin-tucked lapels and ice-blue ties with tiny white dots that are paired with snowy-white shirts are deemed normal. This guy’s outfit says investor, not poor actor.

“Are you lost?” My mouth opens before my good sense can catch up.

“It’s the suit, right?” He flips up the end of his tie and gives me a roguish grin. What is it that Pam from Archer says? Oh right, you could drown a toddler in my panties right now.

“It’s the suit,” I confirm.

“Not lost,” he says, “But if I was, would you have lent me a hand?” He lifts his own hand, palm up, as if to gesture for me to take it. I follow the thick line of his arm and am surprised at how capable that hand looks. Strong. Like it could hold you up if you stumbled. I want to grab it and clutch it to my chest. Not the hand of an investor either. Because I’m not able pigeonhole him, he’s all the more fascinating. I step closer.

“Yes,” I say—because who wouldn’t? Random tourists would walk out of expensive Broadway shows if he announced that he needed help.

My immediate answer is rewarded with an even deeper smile. It’s kind of magical. My bad mood, the worry about my mother, the stress over our lack of money all melts away like ice cream on the sidewalk on a sunny day. I want to stand here and bask in the warmth of this handsome stranger’s smile. We smile at each other as if we’re both happy to be sharing a moment. His hand is still upward, still waiting for me to take it. I lift my own hand slowly and reach toward him, already anticipating that it will be dry but warm, solid but not hurtful. He doesn’t move—not an inch—somehow knowing that I can be easily startled away.

“Where will you take me?” I ask, hand hovering over his.

“Anywhere you want to go.” His response is delivered in a low, husky tone as if he’s imagining an intimate moment. It’s a tone you hear on the beach at the end of a long day spent lazing in the sun and rubbing lotion over your lover. It’s the sound you hear when an invitation is issued to come to bed—and not to sleep.

There is something between us. My eyes widen and I feel the pull, the inexorable pull of the universe drawing me closer. I couldn’t have stopped my feet if I wanted to. And the closer I get to him, the more I realize that he feels it too.

We aren’t strangers. Somewhere, at some point, we must have made a connection and we’re now recognizing it again in this lifetime.

“Hello there,” he says softly, as if we hadn’t spoken moments before. He isn’t saying hello to me. He is acknowledging that there is something special between us.

I’m inches from him, and he’s bending toward me. He’s going to kiss me right here in the street and strangely, wonderfully, weirdly I want to be kissed. New York strangers don’t kiss on the street in broad daylight. We don’t even make eye contact willingly. We fold up our bodies into tight, compact containers on subways and buses so we can avoid accidental touching.

Yet here I am walking straight into the arms of a guy I would never dream of dating. He’s too rich, too polished, too posh for me.

My kind are the worker bees. This guy directs the bees from up high in the clouds. Yet he wants me. I can see it in his eyes, in the way that they’ve darkened with appreciation and even desire.

“I want—”

“I’ll take that package.” A body muscles swiftly between the stranger and me, breaking our connection. A petite woman with striking red hair plucks the box out of my hands and turns to the stranger. “Ian, why don’t you hold this?” Turning back to me, she asks, “Do you have anything for me to sign?”

I nod and jerkily pull up the app on my smartphone. As she scribbles her name down with her finger, I meet Ian’s gaze over her bent head. It’s like he’s never looked away from me. As if everything he wants is right before him.

Ian. I like it. I like him. Would it be so terrible to take him up on his invitation? To go over to Central Park, take my shoes off, and hold his hand as we walk down one of the wide sidewalks and suck in the fresh spring air. Wouldn’t it be absolutely lovely to check all my problems at the gate of the park and walk inside? We could stroll to the lake and he’d place those lush lips over mine and I could feel how truly soft they were.

We’d kiss for a long time, and then he’d take me to dinner where we wouldn’t eat a thing because we would be too busy talking and laughing and falling in love.

The woman takes the package and goes inside the shop, leaving the two of us alone.