Debbie grimaced. “Food poisoning sucks.”
“Yes, it does.” Jenna smiled at a customer who walked past, then followed as Debbie wheeled her cart to the end of the aisle and continued to restock the makeup shelves.
The store was fairly quiet, though somewhere in the distance a child threw what sounded like a doozy of a temper tantrum.
Leaning into the basket, Jenna opened a box, drew out a handful of lipsticks, and started arranging them on the display.
“You’re the manager. You don’t have to do that anymore,” Debbie pointed out. “Why don’t you take it easy tonight? No one will fault you for it.”
She shook her head. “I get antsy when I’m idle.”
Debbie’s eyes suddenly widened. Her face lit up with a wide smile. “Don’t look now, but . . . guess who just entered!”
Jenna felt a sinking sensation in her stomach that had nothing to do with the chicken sandwich that had made her so sick. “Who?”
“Prince Charming!” Debbie blurted, looking over Jenna’s shoulder toward the store’s only entrance open at four o’clock in the morning. “Mr. Tall, Dark, and Yyyyyyyyyyyummy!” The last was said in a growl that reminded Jenna of the Cookie Monster. “And he’s headed this way!”
She groaned. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
The Prince Charming currently making Debbie drool was an incredibly handsome Frenchman who had been frequenting the store for the past month or so. Every time he came in, he made a point of seeking out Jenna wherever she might be and speaking to her. First it had been to ask where he might find Krazy Glue. Then it had been to ask if she knew what houseplants fared well in low light. Then it had become friendly chatting with a hint of flirtation.
And this man didn’t need to flirt to get a woman’s attention. He was gorgeous. At least six feet tall. Broad shouldered and leanly muscled like an NBA player with short black hair and expressive light brown eyes. Always dressed in black with a dark coat that Debbie referred to as his Blade outfit, hold the leather.
Debbie frowned. “That’s weird. He was all smiles a second ago and now he’s frowning. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he heard you.”
“He’s sixty yards away. He can’t hear us. Trust me.”
“True. So what’s the deal? Why don’t you want to see him? I thought you liked him.”
“I do like him,” Jenna said as she grabbed some nail polish and slipped into the next aisle, out of Richart’s sight. She really did. They had had coffee together a few times on her breaks, and she couldn’t remember the last time a man had captivated her so much or made her laugh so often. “It’s just . . .” She set the containers down in a pile on the bottom shelf and motioned to herself. “Look at me.”
“Yeah. You do sorta look like death warmed over.”
“Exactly. I don’t want him to see me like this.”
Debbie’s eyes darted to Richart. “He’s smiling again. Are you sure he can’t hear us?”
“Debbie! Focus!”
“All right—all right. Here.” Leaning in, she pinched Jenna’s cheeks.
“Ouch!”
“Oh quit complaining, you need a little color. And smooth your hair back. It’s all straggly.”
Jenna hastily smoothed back the hair that had escaped her ponytail and made sure her shirt was neatly tucked in. “How do I look?”
“About as good as you feel.”
“Great.”
“The circles under your eyes have a lovely purplish hue.”
“You’re not helping.”
“Shh-shh. Here he comes.” Debbie leaned over the cart and pretended to search the various boxes.
Jenna grabbed the discarded nail polish and started distributing them to their proper places on the shelves.
“I don’t see it,” Debbie said. “Nancy may have forgotten to order it. You want me to go check?” Convinced that Richart had a thing for Jenna, Debbie always found an excuse to leave the two alone.
Or as alone as they could be in a massive superstore.
“Good evening, ladies,” Richart greeted them, stopping beside Debbie’s cart and giving them both a smile. His eyes met and held Jenna’s.
Her heart, as usual, began to slam against her ribs with all of the enthusiasm of a crushing teenager’s. And her stomach filled with butterflies that really didn’t mingle well with the nausea plaguing her.
“Hi,” she said. The moment she had first seen Richart, a sense of familiarity had overwhelmed her. But she was certain she had never met him before. She would have remembered his good looks, his warm, friendly demeanor, and that smooth French accent. It was a puzzle.
“Hi,” Debbie chirped. “How’s it goin’?”
Still smiling, he drew the sides of his coat back a bit and tucked his hands in his pants pockets. “It’s been a quiet night.”
“For us, too,” Debbie replied, then looked at Jenna. “I’m gonna go see if it’s in the other basket. If it isn’t there, I’ll check the back.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
Debbie gave Richart a little wave.
He bowed slightly, watched her leave, then turned a discerning gaze on Jenna.
“So.” She mentally told the butterflies to simmer the hell down so she wouldn’t start dry heaving in front of the first man to interest her in years. “I assume in the private security business a quiet night is a good night?”
He nodded. “Very much so.”
Though young (a good seven or eight years younger than she was by her guess), he was a partner in what sounded like a very successful and very elite private security company.
“Never a dull moment?” she asked with a smile.
“Rarely,” he admitted. His brow furrowed. “Are you feeling all right tonight?”
She winced. “I look that bad, huh?”
“You’re as beautiful as ever, just a bit peaked.”
Seriously, who wouldn’t like this man?
“I ate some bad fast food earlier and am paying for it big-time.”
“Why aren’t you home in bed?”
Because I have a son on his way to medical school and need every penny of every paycheck to supplement his scholarship and keep the student loan debt he racks up to a minimum.
She shrugged. “For food poisoning? Nah. I’ll be fine.”
Richart wasn’t so sure about that, but didn’t press it. Her pale, freckled skin, which usually held a faint hint of pink, had acquired a yellowish cast. Her pretty eyes, more brown than green tonight, were shadowed.
If she had looked this pallid after being bitten by the vampire from whom he had rescued her, Richart would have been worried that she might be transforming, but that had taken place weeks ago. And he had kept an eye on her ever since, watching to ensure the vampire who had fled would not return to harm her.
Of course, keeping an eye on her had only enhanced his interest. He couldn’t forget that kiss. Or the feel of her slender body pressed against his. He liked her smile. He liked her laugh. The camaraderie she shared with Debbie.
His Second had caught on—Richart still didn’t know how, because Sheldon wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer—and had told him to stop stalking her.
Dude, just talk to her already. It’s getting kinda creepy.
Richart had only been looking for an excuse, so . . . he had followed Sheldon’s advice and asked her where to find the Krazy Glue. Soon they had worked up to chatting like old friends and having coffee together whenever he managed to time his visits with her breaks.
“How’s John?” he asked.
As expected, her face lit with pride at the mention of her son. “He just aced another exam.”
“Excellent.”
She clearly adored John, whom she had borne when she was a mere seventeen years old.
An employee walked past and waved. “I’m out, Jenna.”
“’Night, Tracy.”
“Enjoy your night off tomorrow,” Tracy called over her shoulder.
Richart turned back to Jenna and arched a brow. “You have tomorrow night off?”
She nodded. “I’m glad it wasn’t tonight. Being sick on my night off would have really sucked.”
Don’t do it. Don’t do it. Just tell her to have fun and get some rest. Keep it casual. “Would it be too presumptuous of me to ask if I might cook dinner for you tomorrow night? Something mild that won’t upset your stomach further?” Imbécile.
She blinked. “Really?”
“Yes. I could pick up the ingredients and cook them at your place so, if you still aren’t feeling well, you won’t have to go out or dress up and can lounge around in . . .” Hell. What did women wear when they were just hanging around the house? His sister always sported combat gear and weapons.
“Yoga pants and a tank top?” she suggested.
He had no idea what yoga pants were, but had to struggle to keep his body from responding to the mental image of Jenna in a tank top. “Perfect.”
