Chapter 6
SAPPHIRE
Humming to myself as I rummage through the massive box of fabric scraps, I pick up the fox scarf and drop it instantly when I realize it’s real. “That’s disgusting.” I shudder. How could anyone do that to such a beautiful creature? “Animals deserve better than that.”
“I agree.” Someone’s lips nearly brush against my ear from over my shoulder, their breath close enough for me to feel.
I twist my neck to be met with the devilishly handsome face of Eli Hart.
For someone who acts like he doesn’t like me, he sure is close.
“I don’t like animal cruelty,” I whisper, my heart racing at how close he is.
“Fox farming is illegal in many countries.”
“It should be illegal in every country.” I blink slowly.
“If I had the power to make it a worldwide law, it would be.”
Finally, we agree on something. “What are you doing here?” I ask, the pair of us having yet another stare-off. I can’t explain why we keep doing it.
“It’s Saturday and my day off,” he explains.
The guy is a workaholic; I’m not sure if he understands what a day off is. “You’re in a thrift store.” This isn’t the kind of place I’d expect him to be.
His orderly desk is a complete contrast to the haphazard store that smells a bit moldy.
He moves from behind me to my side, and it hits me again just how tall he is. I’m a tiny firecracker in comparison to his skyscraper height. He’s broad-shouldered, too. For an office worker, his presence screams discipline. The guy works out, there is no doubt about it.
Again, I ask, “What are you doing here?” He looks completely out of place in a perfectly pressed white T-shirt and a pair of expensive-looking designer jeans.
My eyes drift over his chest, and I’m no longer imagining what I have already seen underneath because I saw every inch of his solid tan pecs, and abs so tight I could scale them, and those biceps…
I swear they called to me, begging me to give them a firm squeeze to test their strength.
He threads his hands through his thick, rich brown hair that’s perfectly styled.
I’m sure he’ll hate himself for messing it up, especially since there wasn’t a hair out of place.
He then scratches the side of his head, the hair there shaved close, and eventually he answers, “I’m looking for something. ” He’s vague.
Damn, he’s frustrating. “What exactly?”
He deflects, countering with, “You tell me what you’re here looking for first, then I will share.”
His urge to dominate every conversation and moment both infuriates and attracts me.
He’s irresistibly sexy, and I crave that dominance he radiates.
In my mind, I want to pinch him until it hurts, then instantly press my lips to his, and kiss him to make it right, telling him to spank me to punish me.
Jeezo. This really is getting out of hand.
The thoughts I’ve been having about him are borderline pornographic. It’s ridiculously maddening.
I quickly pull myself from my daze, remembering he asked a question.
“I’m here for my mom. She’s a great seamstress, and when I visit her, I always take fabric remnants.
” The more mismatched and color-clashing they are, the more she will love them.
My days of patched clothes are long gone, but Dad’s clothes make him look like a walking, talking patchwork quilt.
“And you are here because…” I let him finish my sentence.
“I collect chess sets.” His reply is blunt and to the point.
“Wooden or ceramic?” I don’t know what compels me to ask.
“Wooden.”
Ah, figures. Just like his conversation. “How many do you have?”
“Eleven.”
“Eleven is an angel number.”
He tilts his head to the side inquisitively. “Explain to me what that means.”
Great, he’s going to think I’m batshit crazy, but I answer anyway. “It’s often known as the illuminator, or the teacher.”
“Maybe I could teach you how to play chess.”
I raise my eyebrows in surprise at his offer, noticing how he drops his gaze downward and then back up my body. If I knew him well enough, I might be able to tell if he likes what he sees, but I can’t tell.
It may sound dull, but I would love nothing more than to spend more time with him, letting him teach me how to play chess and watching him use his strong, veined hands to move the chess pieces around the board.
I brush those thoughts aside and regain my focus.
“The number eleven symbolizes balance, a partnership of sorts; two ones side by side in perfect alignment. One, the mind, the other, the soul.” I hold up one hand, then the other, with my palms facing each other and a gap in between them.
Having witnessed the way he lines everything on his desk, I’m sure he’ll appreciate that parallel analogy.
“You know a lot about numbers.”
“My mother taught me.” More like drummed it into me.
He proposes, “Maybe I should stop at eleven sets.”
“My mom would tell you to stop.” She’s a wise woman. “She reads the tarot, studies numerology, and angel numbers. And she makes the best donuts I’ve ever tasted.”
His lips twitch at the corners as he pushes his hands into the pockets of his jeans at the mention of donut gate.
I wish he would smile, like a complete, wide smile so I could see him. It might help him not look like he has a bar of steel shoved up his ass. He’s so stiff and tense.
“Her donuts are better than Betty Bakes The Best, although you seemed to be enjoying the one I caught you eating yesterday.”
“I ate both,” he confesses, making me laugh out loud because that’s so unexpected.
I shake my head. “So, you don’t hate donuts?”
“I don’t.”
“You lied.”
“I’m sorry.”
I appreciate his to-the-point apology. There are no airs and graces or adding sprinkles to it. “And I’m sorry about yesterday, too. I can be a bit clumsy sometimes.”
“It’s fine. I keep extra shirts and ties at the office.”
Good for him; he’s efficient as well as anal retentive.
Time seems to stretch for what feels like forever, as if he’s torn with what to say or do next, then he hits me by surprise when he firmly comments, “You said you owed me a coffee.” From the moment I met him, his sudden changes in conversation confirm his displeasure with small talk: it’s enough to give anyone whiplash.
“I did.”
There’s a slight awkwardness when he flits his eyes around the thrift store, hesitating before he asks, “Would you like to have one with me now? That is, if you’re free?” he asks, confidence gaining with each word he speaks.
I don’t hesitate when I reply, “I’m free.” Even if I weren’t, I would make myself available for him. I’m desperate to peel back those layers to get to know who the real Elijah Hart is. Not this facade he wears for the world, masking the broad and broody man beneath.
He’s just so… controlled. There is no other word for it.
Hopefully, an informal coffee outside of work, where we won’t talk about his firm or the event, will also give me a chance to help him warm up to me. From his invitation, I can tell he’s slowly thawing, that hard exterior starting to melt.
Soon enough, I’ll have him eating out of my hand.
Or even eating me… For the sake of a successful conference, of course.