Page 7 of Baby, it's Cold Outside
He catches me staring at his hands, which are strong but elegant-looking, with long fingers. “Do I need a manicure or something?”
Embarrassed, I feel my face get hot. “No! Sorry, I was just wondering something.”
One of his eyebrows cocks up. “About my hands?”
Oh, dear God. “Uh, about your shirt actually. Whether or not it has French cuffs.”
“Why were you wondering about my shirt?”
Because I was thinking about taking it off of youis not an appropriate answer, although I’m almost tempted to give it. I mean, why not—I’ve been spewing every thought in my head without a filter all night long, haven’t I?
But in the end, I don’t.
“I guess I just like a nice dress shirt with French cuffs.”
He looks amused.“And why’s that?”
I shrug, figuring I might as well be honest. “I think they’re classy and convey there’s something powerful about a man. But it’s an understated kind of power. Like he might drive a Range Rover and drink expensive scotch, but he’ll still pull your hair and say dirty things to you.”
He doesn’t say anything for a moment, but his eyes stay locked on mine. The tension between us ratchets up about a hundred notches. “Yes.”
I’m so lost in the heat of his gaze that I forget the question. “Yes, what?”
“Yes, my shirt has French cuffs.” He places the boxed tree stand he’s holding in my cart. “Yes, I drive a Range Rover.” Then moves closer to me, so close I can feel his breath on my lips. “Yes, I drink expensive scotch.”
I can barely breathe. My throat is dry. “And the other stuff?”
He smiles the slightly sinister grin of a well-heeled villain. “Come on. I have to letsomethings come as a surprise.”
While I’m standing there, equal parts turned-on and dumbfounded, he takes the cart from me and pushes it toward the front of the store.
Jolly Old St. Nicholas! Is this guy for real?
I feel like I might look for him again only to find he’s been nothing but a figment of my imagination. Do guys like Michael exist outside of fantasies and romance novels? Is he secretly a serial killer? Am I going to wind up tied up in my closet tonight?
Actually, the idea has some possibilities…
It takes me a couple minutes to recover my senses, and by the time I find him near the registers, he’s already paying for all my loot. “What are you doing?” I ask, frantically tugging on his sleeve. “You don’t have to buy all this!”
“Harlow, it’s not that big a deal.” He pulls out a credit card from his wallet, but before he can swipe it through the reader, I grab it.
Michael West.
“Hey, that’s funny,” I say.
“What is? You stealing my Amex?”
“No. Your last name is West. Mine’s North. North…West…we have the same kind of last name.” I don’t know why it makes me so happy, but it does. We’re both directions! We’re both witches from Oz! Together we’re Kim Kardashian’s baby! It has to be a sign, right?
“Nice to meet you, Harlow North.” He quickly snatches the card out of my hand and swipes it. “Now quit being a pain. I’ve got this.”
I huff and pout, but there’s not much I can do since the transaction is complete within seconds. “Thank you. It was really nice of you to help me at all, let alone pay for my drunk tree-trimming party supplies.”
He laughs and gathers up three of the four bags, including the bulky one holding the tree stand box. “Is that what all this is?”
I grab the last remaining bag, which contains my candy and cookie dough. Maybe I’d just eat it right from the tube. “Pretty much.”
We exit the store and immediately, a frigid blast of air hits us. The snow is coming down hard and heavy now, and it’s tough to see even five feet ahead. The ground is slippery too, and I slide a little as we make our way down the sidewalk.
