Jameson (In the Company of Snipers #22) - Irish Winters Page 0,26

intent on a sharper retort. But there she was, speaking with a man without sight, who was still determined to serve. A man who couldn’t see, but had somehow gotten to Alexandria and into this office without anything more than a cane. “I’m just admin. Just staff.”

“But you can still make good decisions. You’re intelligent. I can tell.”

The world tilted, just a little. Or maybe those were the tectonic plates along the Eastern Seaboard settling. Whatever, Maddie felt the minute adjustment her perspective had just undergone. She saw herself clearly for the first time since she’d left her selfish father behind. She did have a darned good job, and she loved what she did for a living. She’d worked extra hard in college and aced her accounting degree. But she’d also been smart enough to realize she needed more than ledgers and balance sheets. Accounting wasn’t very fulfilling. It paid the bills, but it wasn’t her dream job. That was when she’d changed her mind and gone looking for the career she actually loved.

She’d been just as smart when she’d dumped Nash. It’d been scary facing him and telling him she was through. That marriage to him wasn’t working for her. He’d torn her apartment apart, but he’d left. Maybe she was brighter than she’d thought after all.

“Guess it’s time I mashed those babies and turned them into lemonade then, huh?” she asked quietly.

Jameson made an adorably cute funny face. “Ewww, mashed babies. Not a good visual. No, just no.”

He made her smile. “You know what I meant. Puppies, then.”

“Not puppies!” He folded both hands over his chest, faking a heart attack. “No, no, no! We never mash puppies or bunnies or babies.”

Maddie laughed. There was that tantalizing thought again. Blind or not, this man was kissable, and he was funny. He knew how to clown around, and he actually listened. “Fruit! Lemons are fruit. I’m mashing fruit! Not children or puppies, and who said anything about bunnies?”

Jameson took hold of her hand again and laced his fingers between hers, matching their palms. “Sugarless lemonade, okay? Let me know when it’s ready. I’ll be your taste-tester. Deal?”

“Deal,” she promised, feeling lighthearted on a day that had started so, so badly. Maybe there was hope for her. “But before I show you the vault, let’s get you some clothes.”

Her mouth dried at the thought. Him. Without clothes. Needing to be dressed. Or undressed.

“I mean, a shirt.” Flustered, she added, “Office rule number two: dress code is casual. We aren’t invited to many formal affairs, so we wear whatever we want to work. You’re only required to wear a TEAM polo on active operations. Wear whatever you want otherwise.”

Leading Jameson to the storage room, she entered first so he could follow her voice. “This is where we keep TEAMwear, as in polos, tactical vests, boots, snow gear, scuba gear, skydiving equipment, and…” She took a big breath. “You name it, it’s probably in here somewhere. No charge, just take what you need. What size are you?”

She shouldn’t have asked. For some reason, the question sounded nosy. Intimate. Especially when he told her his casual shirt size. Of course. He would be extra-large.

Okay, stop, she told herself. And breathe. Yes, he’s ripped, and he’s tall, and he’s good-looking as heck, but dayum… extra-large? Really? In all departments? “Grab a few shirts so you have extras at home. You know, in c-c-case you ruin one or t-t-two or... or...”

He’d stopped directly in front of Maddie, facing her, his mouth close enough she could smell the mint on his breath. Her lungs failed, just flat out quit working at this, oh, so close proximity and the heady scent of a strong, handsome male. Jameson wore a crisp white dress shirt under a dark gray business jacket, a combination that right now was working her last quivering nerve. He smelled good enough to lick, of aftershave and dryer sheets. Of clean skin and freshly washed hair.

At the moment, he held his cane in one hand, but his other hand rested on his hip. He’d tossed his jacket out of his way, exposing half of his chest and abdomen. The way he’d tucked his shirt into his slacks. That fact that he wasn’t wearing an undershirt. There was something decadently sexy about a good-looking man who dressed professionally. Maybe it was the thought of getting him out of all those properly pressed clothes…

The air vibrated between them.

“Show me,” he murmured, his voice gone husky and thick. Like