in it, but this one, Konstantin, beats them all.
He’s over six foot and big, and he fills the doorway. He’s wearing a dark gray tailored suit, and it fits his body to sinful perfection. He always wears suits like this. Sexy, tempting suits. Or they are to me at least. He’s like a walking, talking, masculine porn show.
His powerful biceps fill out his suit jacket where it hugs his arms, as if he could flex and rip out of the constraints of mere material, like the Hulk or something.
The man always looks to me as if someone has taken one of the world’s top MMA fighters and put him in a sharp suit and told him to be smart for the day. Except, he’s always looked so damn comfortable and at home in that suit; he obviously wears one regularly.
Thick dark hair, and deep blue-gray eyes are the cherry on his hotness cake. Although, this morning, his face is harsher than usual, and his eyes are grayer as if his bad mood has leached the color from them.
I stare at him, heart pounding, and he stares back, his eyes widening as he looks at my face.
“Cassie?” The word is a growl. “What the fuck?”
I swallow past the lump in my throat and put the carton on the counter. “Sorry,” I mumble. “I was really thirsty, and I didn’t know where your glasses were.”
What? That’s what I’m going with here?
“What are the fucking odds?” he says, and his words make no sense. “The universe really isn’t being kind to you, little miss sunshine.”
“Sorry?” I say stupidly.
He doesn’t elaborate, but instead his eyes focus on the carton. “Were you going to put my juice back in the fridge after you drank from the carton?” He raises one eyebrow, his scowl deepening.
“No, of course not.”
“So you were going to throw it away?”
“No, yes, I… Jesus, it’s just juice.”
Why does he fluster me so?
He pushes away from the wall and prowls into the room, near enough for me to get a whiff of his delicious scent. Not fresh and citrusy like the aftershave Humpmeister had worn, but sensual and spicy. God, what was the name of the boy I came back here with?
Konstantin must be the father of the boy about to get married, and the owner of this amazing house. Although, I’m shocked he’s old enough to have a son of the age to be married. I mean, I always knew he was a lot older than me, but not this old.
He clears up the confusion with his next words. “I presume you’re here with my son?” he asks.
So he is the father of moody stag-do kid, and Humpmeister has dropped me right in it.
I nod. Shit. How mortifying this whole situation is. I can hardly say I came with some other random kid, can I? I’ll look like a total slut. “Yes, we’re, erm friends.”
“Cut the crap. You’re dressed like a stripper, with half of last night’s makeup still all over your face. I don’t think you and Michael were having a sleepover and watching movies.”
Michael, of course, the name of his son comes back to me. “I, erm, well, we know each other, and…”
“So?” He brushes past me and reaches into a cupboard, taking out two cups. My heart thuds with his closeness. “If you know him, then you know he’s getting married.”
“Yes.” My stomach flips at his proximity, and I lie on autopilot, not really thinking about what I’m saying. Too shocked by his presence to think. I mean, what are the odds? My brain is unable to process his actual words.
He always did a number on me when he visited the coffee shop, but here, in his territory, he’s so much more.
“I need to leave,” I mumble, gathering my things.
“How? Have you got a taxi coming?”
“No, there’s no service on my phone, and it doesn’t look like the sort of place to have a big taxi service anyhow. We came through a village last night; I was going to walk in and get the bus.”
He barks out a cold laugh, and my legs go all floppy because his smile is gorgeous even when it is tinged with disdain.
Light laugh lines run down from his eyes, and he has more sexy lines around his mouth.
I vaguely recall that Michael had been quite nice looking, but in a preppy, non-threatening way. This man is the polar opposite. Michael must take after his mother. Speaking of which, I don’t want to hang