Chapter 3 #2
Her stomach, on the other hand, had other plans, as it let out an agonized series of rumbles. Poppy supposed that it had been sorely neglected.
For a few moments, she wondered if she could sleep through it – but no, her stomach would not be pacified. It knew what it wanted, and it was incredibly insistent.
Rising with a groan, Poppy stumbled over to what she assumed was the kitchen door. Just a little bite to eat, and then she was going to sleep for the next twelve hours.
Unlocking the door, she peered into the next room…
And straight at the jacked, hunky, shirtless guy who was sprawled with artless grace on a dining chair, gnawing at the chicken drumstick he held in one hand while madly scribbling in a notebook with the other.
Yowza. Hot a whattie! I mean – what a hottie!
Poppy was suddenly very, very grateful that she wasn’t drinking overpriced, watered-down pina coladas next to some stupid overcrowded pool.
She stared, unable to help herself. Even the black-framed glasses perched on his nose somehow just added to the appeal.
Intellectual hunk was a highly underrated category, as far as she was concerned.
The way his light brown, slightly curled hair seemed to hang in front of the glasses as he wrote conjured a certain mystique – as if some nineteenth-century playwright had decided that instead of dying of consumption, he was going to hit the gym instead.
Who writes things by hand in this day and age? she thought inanely, while her higher brain functions did a reboot. If she opened her mouth now, the only words that would come out would be sexy man in kitchen, caveman-style, and nobody needed that.
Instead she just watched, dumbstruck, as the hot man continued to hastily jot down his notes, chewing his chicken with great intensity.
He paused for a moment to stare at the drumstick as if he was trying to discern the secrets of the universe within its half-devoured depths, before returning to his fevered scribblings.
Maybe he’s writing the next great romance novel, her mind supplied unhelpfully, and a helpless giggle slipped out before she could stop herself.
Uh-oh. Big mistake.
She watched, eyes wide, as the man’s head snapped up, eyes even wider. His dark, dark eyes. So dark that they seemed to be black, bottomless and eternal. They were almost hypnotic.
Their gazes locked.
The pen fell from his lax fingers; the drumstick almost shared the same fate, though he managed to scrabble and catch it before it hit the table, somehow all without breaking eye contact with her.
Poppy didn’t break eye contact with him, either – well, except for the briefest of glances down at his gloriously sculpted pecs, and then farther down still, to his strangely incongruous elephant-patterned pajama pants.
But then they snapped right back up to his face.
His handsome, gorgeous face… marred only slightly by the tiny piece of chicken caught on his lip.
No. Not marred. Improved. I want to eat it right off him.
Time seemed to stand still, belied only by the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner and the relentless buzzing of her heart. It was only a few seconds, but it felt like an absolute lifetime.
She could’ve just gazed into those eyes forever, but she supposed that eventually something would have to shatter the bizarre impasse… and in the end, it came when he pulled off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes a bit, before they fixed on her again.
Poppy deflated a little.
Was he just staring at me because he couldn’t focus on me at this distance with his glasses on? Well, that’s a bit of a letdown. To put it mildly.
But no, he was still staring at her. Although he may have just been doing it because she had barged in on his shirtless chicken-eating time, which, she supposed, was fair enough.
Strangely enough, he now looked oddly like he was trying to melt into the earth. Which was laughable, because there was no way that a guy like that could ever just blend into the background. But he was definitely giving off vibes of Don’t look at me, nothing to see here.
Which was patently untrue, because there was plenty to see here.
Her eyes darted back down to the beautifully bronzed skin of his torso, before she painfully dragged them up again.
Stop looking at the poor man, she thought desperately. Would you like it if you were shirtless, and he was staring at you like he wanted to eat you up?
… Wait, don’t answer that.
Poppy’s eye twitched.
Say something. Anything!!
She physically forced her mouth open.
“Sorry! I just came in here to get something to nipple on.”
Her stomach dropped, even as the man’s eyebrows heaved themselves up to previously uncharted heights. Distantly, she noted that he was still holding the remains of the chicken drumstick.
Death. Death is upon me.
“To nibble on! Food, I mean. I want food. Give me eat.”
Surely there’s a fault line directly underneath here that’s just been waiting for an opportunity to open up and swallow me whole, Poppy thought despairingly, even as she noticed a curious look crossing the man’s face at her give me eat comment.
She took a deep breath, and did her level best to look like a normal person.
“I’ll just grab something, and then I’ll get out of your hair. Which really is amazing, by the way. Do you see a stylist, or does it just sit like that naturally?”
Hurrying over to the table on shaking legs without waiting for an answer, she snatched up the first few things she saw – an open jar of olives, some uncooked eggs, a few unmarked mystery boxes – and loaded them into her arms. The eggs, at least, wouldn’t be an issue – she was pretty sure her face was hot enough to cook them to a perfect crisp.
And she definitely wasn’t about to embarrass herself even further by putting them back now.
Turning back to her door without a second look at the sculpted god that was apparently hanging out in her B&B kitchen, Poppy made a break for it – and promptly caught her foot on the edge of the rug.
That’s a trip hazard, she thought dazedly, as the food went flying and the floor, in slow motion, rushed up to meet her face.