to keep right on wallowing in that self-pity. It was a hell of a lot better than dwelling instead on the occasional brush of Hannah's arm against his as she sat in the chair beside him, or staring at the perfect curve of her profiled cheek, or recalling in vivid detail the way she'd looked at him at the Hotel Del Coronado that morning...as if she wanted to crawl inside his clothes.
He was consumed by the way she appeared in hers - well, Dez's. Hannah had the sweetest damn ass he'd ever seen in his life, round in all the right places, and accentuated by the way the jeans she wore were strategically bleached - two palm marks right where a man's hands would like to play. She probably considered the black sweater she'd teamed with the pants conservative, but Dez had a sexy fashion sense that came from having a model mother and too much spending money. Instead of being your average pullover-type garment, this little number laced up the front, and when Hannah moved, between the grommets it revealed distracting bits of creamy skin.
And just the tiniest peek of a black bra. Lace.
He was really obsessed about that. Hannah and all her long legs and luscious curves in black lace underwear.
It was a conventional turn-on, he knew, but still the fantasy made him want to stand up and sing the national anthem in enthusiastic appreciation.
Christ, what was it about him, her, and this patriotic imagery? He glanced at the flag in the corner of the large room. Being stuck in this goddamn government building wasn't helping.
Blowing out his air, he shifted in the uncomfortable seat and then leaned over - almost impaling himself on his own half-hard cock - to reach for some reading material left beneath Hannah's chair. He dropped a three-day-old financial page over his lap and the smaller tabloid magazine into hers.
She looked down at the wrinkled, glossy cover, then over at him. "Thank you."
He grimaced. "You're easy."
She jerked in her chair. "What?"
"No, no. That came out wrong." Her face was already pink. "I meant in regards to thanking me for that likely outdated and definitely trashy rag I just dumped on you."
She gave it a cursory glance. "And I meant thanks again for the ride here."
He knew that, standing on the sidewalk in the rain, she'd been ready to reject his company again until he'd drummed up a practical reason. Now what would have been more practical was to keep running from her as he had at the hotel, but there was still that promise he'd made to his boss, and there was Hannah herself, looking so dejected, not to mention half drowned, by the sudden deluge.
"Getting a duplicate ID is one thing I could do from my end," she continued. "My mom will overnight my replacement ATM and credit cards as soon as they're delivered to my house. One of my brothers volunteered to drive them down along with more of my own clothes, but I managed to head that off, thank God."
"You don't get along?"
"It's not that. My brothers are great, my parents are great, everyone in my whole small town is great, but..." She shrugged.
He let her Pleasantville depiction go unchallenged, because he remembered he didn't need to know any more about her than he already did. He was supposed to be thinking of himself, poor Tanner. Poor Tanner, stuck in a windowless bureaucratic office building beside a woman he wanted to bed in the worst way.
And shouldn't. Couldn't. Would not.
Her number was finally called and he watched her walk to the counter, keeping his eyes off those pseudohandprints on her cute butt cheeks. He looked at her silky hair instead, and her delicate shoulders, and the graceful length of her fingers, the left ones still wrapped around the tabloid he'd found.
In mere minutes she turned around, the new ID in hand. He stood up and couldn't help himself from stretching out his palm, curious to get a gander at her plastic card.
Frowning, she whipped it behind her back. "Everybody lies about their weight," she said, defensive.
"And everybody looks like crap in their photo too." He tugged on her elbow. "C'mon, let me see. I'm searching for clues as to why you've gone four years without a date."
Her full mouth tightened. "Forget it. I signed up to give away my organs, not donate to your quota of daily laughs."
Shrugging, he stepped back to let her precede him toward the exit. Then,