The Guy Next Door - By Lori Foster, S Donovan, V Dahl Page 0,89

his throat and got busy unpacking more of the souvenir glasses. He stacked them within easy reach of the tap, gathered up the used glasses people had left behind and stowed them in the empty box. Then he glanced toward the other booth again. This time, she was on the phone, looking serious now, nibbling on a fingernail while she listened. Eric watched as her lips closed over the tip of one finger before she shook her head and started talking. He knew he was only imagining the tiny glint of wetness on her nail, but he narrowed his eyes anyway.

She probably wasn’t as sexy as he thought she was. He was just stressed. And she had a sweet face that seemed a warning against thinking dirty thoughts. He spared one more look for her curves then put his head down and finished packing. But when he stood and hoisted the box to his shoulder, his eyes swept by her again, and he realized she was watching.

His double take was less than subtle. There was no covering it up. Her eyes slid away, but they touched on him again a second later. Her lips quirked in the briefest of smiles.

With the box on his shoulder, Eric couldn’t just stand there staring, so he turned and walked out of the booth, his head buzzing with awareness. He couldn’t quite tell her age—somewhere between twenty-five and thirty-five, maybe. Old enough that she wasn’t just some pretty face hired to be a marketing bunny.

“I’ll be back in five,” he called to Henry before heading toward the loading area. He didn’t need to walk by her booth, but on the return trip, loaded down with a box of clean glassware, Eric took the long way around, just out of curiosity. He was still fifty feet away when it became clear the woman was no longer at her station.

He was in the middle of a mental shrug when the booth branding became visible. The stylized letters of the sign became words. The words registered in his brain and took on meaning. Eric’s mental shrug became a psychic flailing.

Ho-ly shit.

No wonder she oozed sensuality. The woman worked for a sex shop. Oh, the sign said “erotic boutique,” but a sex shop by any other name was…

Good God.

His pulse sped as he walked by, trying not to stare. But that was probably conspicuous as hell. Every other red-blooded man in the vicinity was staring.

The White Orchid. Hell, even the name was sexy-class, just like the woman. He knew of the place, of course. It was infamous and only a half mile away from the brewery. He’d never been inside, but the art deco-style building appeared completely benign, offering no hint at the naughty wares sold inside. The displays in the large windows were tasteful. High-heeled boots and cute little hats, not a sex toy to be seen. Not in the window, anyway.

Eric’s heart pounded as if a bullet had just zipped past his ear, but as he slipped back into the comfort of his safe, unsexy booth, he wasn’t sure why. Had his pulse picked up because he’d just avoided a bullet? Or because he’d come so close to an amazing explosion?

Whatever the reason, he kept his eyes straight ahead for the next half hour. Still, his brain spun to a blur with thoughts of what a woman like her might be like if someone got a chance to get close to her.

“BETH,” CAIRO GROANED, “I can’t take another minute here with these people. It’s geek city.”

Beth Cantrell nodded as if she understood, but she was occupied with staring at the hunky geek serving beer a few stalls over. She’d taken her lunch when he’d disappeared earlier, hoping she might accidentally run into him in the hall, but no such luck. She was back now though, and enjoying the show.

“Actually, you know what?” Cairo said. “They’re not geeks. Geeks can be hot. These guys are just…dweebs. Preppy dweebs.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Beth agreed. Preppy dweebs were the horror of her friends’ existence, but they were Beth’s secret, shameful craving. A secret she’d carry to her grave. All the women in her world dated edgy guys. Men with tattoos and piercings. Men who lived alternative lifestyles that matched up perfectly with the alternative girls who worked at The White Orchid. Unfortunately, Beth’s image was a bit like a mirage in a desolate sexual desert.

She eyed the dark-haired guy in the blue polo shirt again. She’d caught him looking a couple of