Beth Michele: Scarred Beautiful

I feel eyes on me and turn my head to see a man with salt ‘n’ pepper hair and a wrinkled forehead staring at me. It makes me want to glare at him and shout, “ What the hell are you staring at ?” but that would be incredibly rude and that’s just not me. I mean, I realize he’s only looking at the shell: the shoulder-length raven hair highlighted in caramel, the startling green eyes, the dimple on my left cheek. Kyle used to love my dimple . I’m temporarily rattled by the memory but quickly try to brush it off.

I focus instead on my sketching, desperate to distract myself from the hollow in my chest, the many cuts that refuse to heal no matter how much ointment I slather on top of them. The juice bottle design is coming along nicely, the label taking on a more contemporary look with bright colors and bold lettering, exactly what the client requested.

“Hey, beautiful, is this seat taken?”

A voice attempts to snap me from my thoughts but I ignore it, until I hear it again. It’s thick, it’s rich, and it’s throaty.

“Yoo-hoo…beautiful. Is it okay if I sit down?”

And when I look up, it’s sexy as hell.

Dear Lord, Sweet Baby Jesus, and an Oh My God all wrapped up in one. I hope to hell my mouth isn’t hanging open right now. He has hair the color of the night sky and eyes a deep brown, a square jaw, and lips with a contour so perfect it looks like they were hand-drawn. Oh, and did I mention he’s cut. Yeah, he’s cut—like ripped: strong, athletic build and a slim waist, a six-pack accentuated by low-slung jeans, and a white t-shirt that adheres to every single muscle, and I mean…every…single…one.

When I finally find my tongue and make sure it’s securely in my mouth, I speak. “Sure. Let me just move my bag.”

He grins, and then all bets are off—like full-on gorgeous off. He’s got perfect white teeth and a captivating smile. We’d make a good complement to one another. I mentally scold myself for sounding like a dog in heat but it doesn’t stop me from enjoying the view.

When he reaches up to place his carry-on and briefcase in the overhead compartment, his shirt eases up and I glimpse the tiniest sliver of tanned, hard stomach. If he wasn’t so close to me, I’d pull out the Jack Daniels because I definitely need a drink.

He sits down and I immediately inhale something spicy mixed with sweat. I might not need that Jack Daniels after all. At the rate I’m going, I could get drunk on him in about two seconds. I breathe deeply through my nose and hope he doesn’t notice that I’ve taken a liking to his scent. There is something terribly wrong with me, I know. You’d think I’d never seen or been near a guy before. But this guy is, well, he’s hot with a capital H . Just the way he called me beautiful made me want to give myself over to him, bow to his every whim.

I busy myself again with the design I’m working on when Mr. Hotness speaks.

“So, do you come here often?”

When I look up, he’s grinning, making the green flecks in the brown of his eyes sparkle. I smile back and wonder if it’s obvious I find him unbelievably hot. I have to press my thighs together, that’s how hot I think he is.

I arch a brow, scrutinizing his forward approach. “Does that line usually work for you?”

“I don’t know, I’ve never used it before,” he replies with a slight tip of his lips.

Yeah, right.

“I’m Ryan,” he says, extending his hand, a cocky smile sitting on his ever-so-perfect mouth.

Well, Peyton was right about the freak-out, but not for the reasons she initially expected. I’m a bit afraid to touch him. I already feel like I need a new pair of panties and that could be just the thing to push me over the edge. But what other choice do I have? I can’t leave him hanging. It’s like an olive branch dangling in front of me and I have to take it.

His hand is rough yet smooth, strong yet gentle, and I can almost imagine him kneading my skin with those hands. I make the mistake of looking up, and when I do, I’m greeted by those alluring, dark irises and an expectant stare.

“Your name?”

Oh yeah.

“I’m Fran.”

I try to pull my hand back but notice he seems to be exploring it. His thumb is stroking over my knuckles and I’m getting turned on…just from that simple touch. “Can I have my hand back?”

His lips turn up in a grin. “I don’t know. I kind of like the way it feels in mine.”

Okay. Where’s the Jack Daniels?

He lets go and I instantly regret it. The rubbing sensation was lulling me into a sensual calm and slowing my rapid heartbeat.

I’m tapping the pencil on my pad, needing to keep my hand occupied, but it’s a bit hard to concentrate because I keep catching whiffs of his cologne. It’s soothing and makes me want to just curl up next to him and go to sleep, or fuck him senseless—I can’t decide which one. My thoughts make me sound like a sex-crazed lunatic. The fact is, I do love sex but in all honesty it’s a coping mechanism. It helps to block out the pain. As far as I’m concerned, if it’s sex or alcohol, I choose sex. It’s not an addiction for me. It makes me forget…and I’d do anything to forget.

I glance at Ryan from the corner of my eye and notice he’s reading a magazine. I tilt my head to the side trying to make out what it is.

He senses my stare and turns the cover my way. “ Architecture Magazine . Pretty interesting stuff, in case you’re wondering.” Closing it, he shifts his body my way, once again giving me a great view. I can now see his long, lush eyelashes that practically fan his cheeks, and his smooth, gentle eyebrows.

“So, is that what you do?” I ask, trying hard to maintain eye contact and not drift to his lips. They’re very distracting.

“I am an architect,” he answers proudly.

He eyes my notepad, squinting to make out what’s on the page. “What do you do? Are you some kind of an artist?”

I giggle. “I guess you could say that. I’m a design manager.” Listen to me, I sound like I’ve been doing this job forever. Not . But, if there’s anything I am, it’s focused and determined to succeed, and I won’t let anything stand in my way.

His lips turn up at the edges, curiosity flashing in his eyes. “What kind of design do you do?”

I’m kind of used to this line of questioning and where it leads. I flick the tip of the pencil against my mouth and evade his gaze. “Mostly advertising and branding.”

He smirks and raises an eyebrow, and I already know what he’s thinking. “Sexy ads?”

I sigh a little louder than I’d intended. “Not exactly. I mean, there is….” I pause, like I’m about to say something taboo, “a sexy quality to the ads sometimes.” When I say the word sexy I can feel his stare move leisurely down from my face to my breasts, and then travel to my legs, leaving a trail of heat on my skin.

“How ‘bout a demonstration?” he teases, grinning that ridiculous smile of his that must bring women to their knees.

“The bathroom here is a bit small,” I flirt back, and then scold myself again for acting this way. This isn’t what I really want, but the longing inside my chest, the constant twist and pull at my core tells me something different. It’s been a long time since anyone has touched me, held me.

He laughs, the sound a deep rumble from his chest. “I’m sure we could make it work.”

And just like that I want him.

His eyes roam over my body in slow appreciation. “Hmm…perhaps another time, another place.”

“Perhaps,” I reply, my face flushing a bright shade of red before I look in the other direction. I’m starting to feel an ache between my legs and the waywardness of my mind is taking me places with Ryan I need not go.