IT WAS Gay’s hat that Tory saw first. Or the peacock feathers anyway, rising above the tallest shopper meandering through the aisles. She was back? Well, what do you know? Maybe she’d brought her mom? That brought a smile to Tory’s face.
The crowd parted before her like the Red Sea before Moses, the way crowds did when she was going wherever she was going. They stood back, stared, and let her pass. She had that power.
Tory’s smile broadened. What could she have up her peacock sleeve? It was always something worthwhile.
It was only when she was mere feet from the table that she turned and Tory saw the man with her. She waved at the man with a flourish by way of introduction and quite suddenly… she disappeared.
Not really. Tory knew she was there.
But for the moment, he only had eyes for her companion.
Whoa. Whoa, whoa, and whoa…. Who was this?
And…. Tory thought he looked strangely familiar, but where would he have seen someone like this and not flirted with him?
From what seemed like a far-off distance, he heard Gay say, “Tory, I would like you to meet my dear, dear friend Charlie Brooks. Charlie, this is the artist I told you about—the adorable one, I might add—Tory Phillips.”
The man stood about five nine, a few inches taller than Tory (the better to tilt his head up for a kiss), had the softest, kindest, brown eyes (with a sexy bit of shyness as well) with just the beginnings of lines at the corners, and that dusting of silver in his hair that always sent a shiver down Tory’s spine. And such a sweet, unassuming (shy?) smile! He couldn’t help it. Tory couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to kiss that mouth and—
Whoa!
Those eyes. They’d gone so wide! His mouth slightly ajar.
Tory could only hope that it was a good sign. Please let it be a good sign and not that he’d intimidated the man. He could do that. Had done it.
He smiled at the man—Charlie, Gay said his name was Charlie—and held out his hand. “Why, hello, Charlie,” he said (resisting the urge say, “Well, hel-lo, Charlie!”). “I’m pleased to meet you. Any friend of Gay’s is a friend of mine!”
And then, goodness gracious, he thought he saw panic in the man’s kind brown eyes, and for one long moment, Tory was afraid he was going to bolt for it.
God! Was he trembling?
It was the tremble that made Charlie look even more familiar.
What did I do?