Imperfectly Delicious (Imperfect Series #6) - Mary Frame Page 0,11

to a man in way too long and he smells way too good. And familiar, somehow.

“It was a combination of too much flailing with a loose shirt and Jeffrey Potter being a mouth breather.” I focus on his wrists and fingers. They’re nice. Strong and sensitive. He has small scars on the one thumb I can focus on. Before I can ogle his hands anymore, a final tug frees my hair and I stand up and turn to thank my rescuer.

All the heat in my face rushes from my head to my feet and—oh, no.

My kind and thoughtful rescuer is him.

Guy Chapman.

Panic slides through me like water through a sieve.

He’s found me. I try to swallow past the lump in my throat and promptly start coughing and choking on my own spit.

He claps me on the back. “Are you okay?”

I struggle to retain control and get the liquid out of my windpipe without coughing spittle in his face but the area is confined and there are not many ways I can turn.

Heat suffuses my neck and face. I’m a human heat lamp and my eyes are a messy watering pot.

Oh God, I’m going to die here next to my sworn enemy and all the paramedics will see my runny mascara face and mottled complexion. And I’m wearing my laundry panties.

His presence hovers next to me like a specter or other menace, like maybe a demon. He’s going to do something to speed my death along, I’m sure of it. That way I won’t be parking my pathetic truck near his fancy restaurant.

But he doesn’t try to kill me. He doesn’t harass me about my truck.

Instead he continues to pat me on the back gently and asks again, “You alright?”

Not exactly a demonic phrase, in and of itself.

I nod, wiping my eyes a finger to avoid smudging my mascara too roughly, and clear my throat a couple of times for good measure. “Fine, fine. Just, uh, swallowed wrong.”

I keep my gaze focused down, surreptitiously cleaning up my face and avoiding direct contact.

My heart thumps a dull beat in my chest. My body is tensed for fight or flight.

After a few quiet seconds that last a lifetime, I can’t help but peek.

I lift my chin, tense but determined. I’m not doing anything wrong. I will fight him. Or grovel and beg for mercy. One of those.

Our eyes meet, mine likely wide and terrified in my skull.

Hazily, I recognize the brightness of his gaze. It’s been so long since we’ve been this close, I had forgotten about his eyes. They’re green—not a normal, hazel green but a bright, vibrant, impossible green. Blade of grass green that is generally accompanied by an intimidating glare. But he’s not scowling like I expected. His gaze is steady, but tired. Worn around the edges like an old pair of gloves. The rest of him is as put together as ever, except for the slight scruff on his jaw.

I expect his expression to phase into something unpleasant once he realizes who I am, but it doesn’t happen.

There’s no flicker of recognition. No shocked gasp. No, “It’s you! Evil spawn of Satan cupcake confectioner!”

Just the weary gaze and very slight upward twist to his lips.

In a burst of shock, the truth showers over me like expired rainbow sprinkles.

He doesn’t know who I am. How is this possible?

It’s true that he hasn’t actually seen me in a year—at least not up close—as a result of my excellent ninja skills. But still.

How do you forget someone who set you on fire? I mean, literally. I set him on fire. Was it that forgettable?

What the heckerino do I do now?

Chapter Four

Don’t let love interfere with your appetite. It never does with mine.

–Anthony Trollope

Guy

Who is this woman?

There’s something about her that’s vaguely familiar. But I’m sure I would remember those deep blue eyes—the color only heightened by her pinkened cheeks—and her hair. Long, with a slight curl and that color. A deep red that matches her eyebrows.

“Who are—?” I start.

“Uh, is someone in there?” A voice calls out from the entrance.

I twist around. There’s a man in a suit standing in the curved entrance, mostly blocking a row of children behind him who are laughing and chattering and waiting their turn to come into the exhibit.

They must have heard the grunting and panting and coughing. “Just a minute, please. We’ve had uh, a little situation.” I spin back to the redhead.

Her fathomless blue eyes widen, and she tries to fumble her hair back