Breaking the Ice

Chapter 8

8

“Nick’s set me up with a plastic surgeon.”

“That’s nice. Cosmetic kind or serious kind?”

“There’s a difference?”

“Duh! Which you’d know if you ever bothered to read a Cosmo instead of the Financial Times .”

Samantha could almost see Bec’s eye roll as a loud sigh sounded down the line.

“Cosmetic fixes your boobs and your bits. Serious does little kiddies with disfiguring injuries, orphans, burns, civil war victims. They get humanitarian awards.”

“Cosmetic, I think. Speaking of which, how do you think I’d look with breast implants?”

“There’s nothing wrong with your boobs. They’re perfect. I’d kill for them.”

Samantha smiled. “Humor me.”

“Alright. What cup size?”

“E?”

“Too Dolly. What about a C?”

“Bec, I’m already a C.”

“Exactly my point. Perfect.”

Nick’s nostrils flared as he read the beautifully sensual sex scene in the Rita Summers book. She may be seventy but the lady knew a thing or two about sex. And how to write it. His dick twitched and he totally understood why the hero wanted the heroine.

Hell, he wanted her and she wasn’t even real!

There was one distinct disadvantage to owning a romance bookshop – sex. He was surrounded by books describing the sexual act in great detail. Thrusting, rocking, pounding, penetrating. Moaning, whimpering, groaning. Exploding, shattering.

Fucking.

Some days it felt as if the shelves were pulsing and throbbing all around him, coming to life. He swore, every now and then, when the last customer had left and he was locking up for the night, he could hear the faint echo of heavy breathing.

His eyes flicked off the page as Samantha walked past, a feather duster in her hand. The heroine in Rita’s book was a maid at an inn and it was hard not to draw comparisons as he watched her surreptitiously.

Her T-shirt rode up as she dusted the top shelf and he caught a tantalizing glimpse of her metamorphosis tattoo. She bent down low and her round bottom did strange things to his equilibrium. She leaned forward and her cleavage strained against the material of her shirt and he wanted to touch her there very badly.

He wondered how she’d react if he cornered her among the shelves and demanded she service him as the wench’s boss had done. Would she be as willing? As eager? Would she sink to her knees as the starry-eyed maid had done and blow his mind?

Or would she kick him in the balls and file a sexual harassment suit…?

She looked up and caught him staring and smiled absently, her brain clearly focused on the task at hand. Nick quickly glanced away. What the fuck, dude? He took some deep calming breaths as Samantha disappeared behind another bookshelf.

Pull yourself together, dickhead.

This was completely inappropriate. Jesus… were these books frying his brain? No. It had just… been a while, that was all.

Nick thought back. How long had it been?

Since just before his injury. And two months was an extraordinarily long time for him. He breathed easier. This… fixation with Samantha was merely a reflection of his state of celibacy.

Face it man, you love women. Women love you.

It was rare for Nick to go even a week without some kind of action. So, that was his problem. He needed to get laid. That would take the edge off his simmering horniness.

As would spending less time ogling his employee.

Sure, he spent a few hours every afternoon away from her, but it was clearly not enough. And he was just sitting on his ass the rest of the time. Nick was used to training hard. Running, jumping, skating, working out in the gym.

Doing drills.

Nick shoved a hand through his hair. The next few months would be the longest he’d ever spent without daily rigorous activity and the thought of spending them on his butt with Samantha dusting things around him was suddenly frustrating as hell.

He really needed to get laid.

“Do you have to do that?” he griped as she reappeared again with her feather duster, standing on tiptoes to reach a stray cobweb on the ceiling, baring her midriff.

Pausing mid-action, a frown beetled her eyebrows. “Do what?”

Dust up so damn high. “Dust shit.”

Settling back down on the balls of her feet, she nodded. “Yes.”

Of course . Nick re-opened the book and forced himself to concentrate. “If I’d known about your obsessive cleaning I wouldn’t have hired you,” he muttered.

“Please.” She snorted. “I could have had OCD stamped on my forehead and your half-assed interview technique wouldn’t have ferreted it out.”

“I didn’t know I had to screen for dust freaks.”

She frowned again as she glared at him. “Is there a particular reason why you’re being such a ballbuster today?”

“Other than your excessive use of a feather duster?”

“It’s dust, Nick. I know they don’t have that out there on the ice but here, in ordinary life, it forms every day. Your grandmother dusted every day.”

Yeah, but my grandmother didn’t look that hot in jeans and a tee .

Nick stood. He had to get out into the fresh air. Then the bell over the door dinged and Nick almost kissed the customer who entered. It was Dulcie and he greeted her like a queen. The old lady popped in most days to exchange her books and for a chat. Nick knew Dulcie missed his grandmother terribly so he always made sure he fussed over her when she arrived.

But he outdid himself today.

He fixed her a cup of tea, just the way she liked it with a slice of lemon and served it to her in a china teacup and saucer with a daffodil pattern which Samantha had sourced at a local antique shop when Dulcie had refused to drink out of a mug .

Uncouth, she had muttered, looking at him as if Birdie had never taught him any manners.

“How’s your little great-grandson going?” Samantha asked as she delivered the tea to Dulcie. “Is he out of hospital yet?”

“Not yet, dear.” The older woman blew on the tea. “The doctors say it’ll be another week.”

“That will be a relief for Joanne,” Samantha commiserated. “When you’re finished I’ve got that Beverly Jenkins you were after. A customer traded it in yesterday.”

Dulcie beamed. “Isn’t she gorgeous, Nick?”

“Gorgeous,” he agreed testily then headed out back but not before he heard Dulcie asking if he was alright and Samantha saying something about a dust allergy .

Nick paced the back room that was both the storeroom and kitchen, complete with a fridge, a sink for washing up, and a small dining table.

Gorgeous. Yes, damn it, she was gorgeous.

All his customers agreed. Everyone, it seemed, loved Samantha. Nick didn’t pretend to know what it was that motivated his customers to walk in the shop but he knew what motivated them to return – Samantha.

She was perky and welcoming and always genuinely pleased to see anyone. She remembered details about their lives like with Dulcie just now and knew their individual bookish preferences from auto-buy authors to favorite tropes.

This morning alone they had Vonnie from the GPO who liked them hot and spicy. Bernie, a burly, middle-aged city construction worker who came in every week to stock up on sweet romances for his mother and her friends at the retirement home. And Dora who worked nights at a 7-Eleven and had a penchant for romantic suspense.

They’d all left with a bag full of goodies and a smile on their faces.

And she was constantly mindful of their customers. A particular book would be traded in and she’d brandish it as she said, “I’ll put that aside for Bernie. Old Mrs. Gruber at the home loves historicals.” Or, “Oh, goody , Dora’ll love this one.”

Thanks to the gorgeous Samantha, they were continuing Birdie’s tradition and sense of community and the shop was thriving. He’d be stupid to wreck all that.

So he needed to quit with the dusting fantasies and just get laid already.

Samantha was pleased to see the back of Nick when he left for his physio session and hoped like hell the activity put him in a better mood. He’d brooded all morning and they’d barely spoken a civil word. She had no idea why he’d come to work with a giant cucumber thrust up his ass but she had enough things to think about with tonight’s blind date looming without having to figure out Nick.

The date with the cosmetic surgeon .

God, why did she ever agree to this? But then her eggs cheeped and she remembered.

What was she going to wear? What was she going to say? What if he had bad breath? Or was boring? Or… had a hankering for offal?

What if he found her wanting?

Blind dates always made her nervous. A blind date with a plastic surgeon made her terrified. It shouldn’t; after all, she was a nip and tuck dream. They could probably converse all night about her body faults. Her cellulite, her non-perky breasts, those tiny lines she was just starting to make out around her eyes and her stubborn curves.

How about some Botox and pass the potatoes please. No… too many carbs. Broccoli. No carbs in broccoli.

Oh God, she was a wreck even before she got there!

Seriously, a night being critically examined by someone whose sole job it was to create beauty was suddenly very daunting. But he was in her demographic. He was a forty-five-year-old professional man and that was all that mattered.

The bell interrupted her thoughts and she looked up from the counter to find Nick strolling back through the door looking a helluva lot less tense than when he’d departed.

“How was physio?”

“Excellent,” he proclaimed with a smile.

Okay, definitely less tense. “You’re in a better mood.”

“Yeah.” He grimaced as he approached. “Sorry about that. Cabin fever I think. I’m not really used to being cooped up indoors. If I get like that again order me out for a walk.”

Samantha quirked an eyebrow. How the hell was he going to be by September if this was how he acted after a few weeks? “I promise to frog-march you out at gunpoint if necessary.”

He laughed. “Deal. So? What’s up?”

Samantha was going to ask him how he knew anything was up but she supposed she had been frowning when he walked in and, even after such a short acquaintance, Nick could read her so well. Better than any of her boyfriends ever had. Hell, she’d been with Gary for a year and he’d been totally clueless when it came to her moods.

“I’m a bit nervous about tonight,” she admitted as she swiveled slightly on the stool. “I can’t even decide what to wear.”

“Sam.” He sighed heavily. “I’ll let you in on a secret. Men don’t care what women wear. Men are just pleased that you like them enough to go out with them.”

Okay, sure… whatever. “They must want their dates to be presentable, surely?”

“No.” He shook his head. “They just want them to put out.”

“ Nick. ” The man was totally exasperating sometimes. “He’s a plastic surgeon. I’m betting he’s gonna care.”

“Alright.” He took a deep breath like the last thing he wanted to discuss was her clothing but he would suffer through it. Which she appreciated. “Have you got an outfit in mind?”

“I have some nice, tailored pants with a retro vibe.” Her ass looked okay in them too.

He shook his head emphatically. “Nope.”

“I have heaps of power suits?” And jackets covered a multitude of sins.

“Jesus, Sam, you’re trying to make your eggs happy, not balance the books.”

Samantha glared at him. Really, was there a need to be sarcastic? She took a breath and tried again. “I have this little black dress. It’s not new but it is a classic cut.”

“Well why didn’t you say so? It sounds perfect.”

“It’s a little clingy.” But… black was slimming, right?

“Yeah… you should definitely go for the clingy look.”

Samantha looked down her body then back at Nick, about to protest, but he had a strange expression on his face that made her tummy all loopy and she didn’t want to go there. “Okay, thanks.” She stood and stretched a little to ease a kink in her back, noting that his gaze dropped briefly to her midriff before returning to her face. “If you don’t need me anymore I’ll finish for the day.”

“What about condoms?”

Samantha blinked at the question he’d just blurted. “Sorry?”

“Condoms,” he said with a nod, his voice firmer. “You know. Just in case. Be prepared.”

“Nick… I’m going on a date. I do not plan on having sex with the guy.”

“But what if he’s the one? What if he wants to come to the rescue of your eggs and he sweeps you off your feet and you just can’t say no?”

Samantha snorted at the picture he conjured up. Yeah. Right. “Well… I’m quite practiced at saying no.” Given the hook-up culture so entrenched in sport, she had no doubt Nick had probably slept with plenty of women on the first date. Hell, he probably didn’t even need to date them to get laid. But that wasn’t her.

She had no problem with one-night stands. They just weren’t her style.

“And if you don’t want to say no?”

“Well, it can wait till date number two in that case.”

“What if it can’t wait?”

“ Nick! ” Why was he being so insistent?

“I’m being serious. It happens sometimes.”

Hmm. What would that be like? To fall for someone so hard you just had to have them. On the spot. She stared into his eyes, fascinated by the idea that she could fall for Nick like that.

But she wasn’t that much of an idiot.

“Yeah well, it doesn’t happen to me. I’m much too sensible. And if, by some incredible long shot it does, then I’m sure he’ll have such contingencies covered.”

“Protection is not just a male responsibility, Sam.”

Samantha looked into his earnest gaze, his brown eyes intensely commanding, the cleft in his chin pronounced. Shaggy hair brushed his collar and she fought the sudden urge to push her fingers into it. It would be so easy to lose her focus working with Nick. It would be easy to convince herself that her crush was something more. And that would be stupid.

Her clock was ticking down to a baby . His was counting down to hockey season.

“We’ll visit Dora at the 7-Eleven on the way home.”

There was silence in the shop for a few moments before he murmured. “Good.”

Eager to be away now and get into the right frame of mind for tonight, Samantha gathered her bag and bade Nick goodbye as she opened the door.

“Sam?”

“Yeah?” She turned, her hand on the doorknob.

“If he suggests you get any work done, run away. Run away fast.”