Waking Up to You Overexposed - By Leslie Kelly Page 0,83

from the glory of him.

“I know.” He shrugged slightly. “But the door was unlocked, so I thought I’d take a chance and see if you were here.”

Nick stood inside the shadowy café, illuminated by the late-afternoon sunlight streaming in through the front window. The light reflected in his dark eyes, lending them a golden glow that seemed to radiate warmth. She felt it from here.

“You found me,” she murmured.

“You didn’t exactly need to leave a trail of crumbs, Cookie...this place has been here forever.”

“Don’t call me Cookie,” she snapped.

He held up his hands, palms out. “Sorry.”

Ordering her heart to continue beating normally, Izzie tossed the towel onto the counter, then crossed her arms over her chest to stare at him. “Are you trying to tell me you knew I’d be here because you knew who I was? Try again.”

Nick cleared his throat, averting his gaze. Wincing in a cutely sheepish way, he said, “No, I didn’t know you at first.”

So, he’d recognized her after she had left?

“Mark told me who you were.”

The jerk.

“I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you. It’s been a long time.”

Not long enough to erase him from her mind, that was for sure. She’d recognize Nick Santori if she bumped into him blindfolded during a blackout. Because his scent was imprinted in her brain. And her body reacted in one instinctive way whenever he was near—a way it didn’t react with anyone else, even men with whom she’d been intimate.

He made her shaky and achy and weak and ravenous all at the same time. Always had, for some unknown reason.

“Yeah. A long time,” she mumbled, walking over to wash her hands in the small sink behind the counter.

Damn, she hated that he flustered her. She had known more handsome men. She’d been to bed with more handsome men. Maybe none who were as rugged and masculine, or so sensual. But she had dated drop-dead gorgeous actors and millionaires who wanted to notch their bedposts with a professional dancer who could kick her leg straight up above her head. None of them had ever affected her the way this one—who she’d never even kissed—did.

“I have to run, Izzie,” a voice said. “I don’t want to be...in the way.”

Izzie had almost forgotten Bridget was in the kitchen. Seeing the grin on her cousin’s face, she blew out a deep, frustrated breath. She’d intended to use Bridget as an excuse—or at the very least as a five-foot-five chastity belt, to keep Izzie from doing something stupid. Like smearing rich cheesecake filling all over Nick’s body, then slowly licking it off.

But her cousin was bailing on her, already heading toward the exit. “Nice to see you, Nick,” she said.

“How’s your family?”

They fell into a brief, easy conversation, like most people who’d grown up in the neighborhood usually did. Except Izzie—who hadn’t yet rediscovered that easy camaraderie with all the people she’d grown up with. While the two of them chatted, Izzie tried to regain her cool, forcing herself to look at this guy like she looked at every other guy. As nothing special.

Fat chance. She couldn’t do it. He was special.

It had to be because he was the first man she’d ever wanted. Never having had him made the intensity of her attraction build. With no culmination—no explosion when she finally had him and got him out of her system—she’d remained on a slow, roiling boil of want for Nick for years.

So take him and get it out of your system.

Oh, the thought was tempting. Very tempting. Part of her desperately wanted to ask him to go with her to the nearest hotel and do her until she couldn’t even bring her legs together. If she thought he would, and that he’d then forget about it, never expecting a repeat and never—ever—breathing a word about it to anyone, she’d seriously consider it.

But he wouldn’t. Not in a million years. She knew that just as surely as she knew he’d never have even kissed her when she was underage, not even if she’d leaped on him and held him captive. Which, to be fair, she had...at the wedding.

He was a Santori. With everything that went with the name. His upbringing, his family, his own moral code meant he would never have a meaningless sexual encounter with his sister-in-law’s younger sister. The daughter of his father’s friend. The girl up the block. No way in hell.

He was the kind of guy who would have to date a woman he slept with. Dating—neighborhood style—as in