Heather Macallister - Undressed

He grinned down at her, a living, breathing, I’m-oh-so-charming-and-I-know-it country-lite rocker cliché.

One by one, she mentally ticked off the type:

Longish hair carefully cut in a bazillion layers so it would always look just a little shaggy so he wouldn’t be accused of trying too hard—check. Bonus check for sun streaks.

Stubble—check.

Devilish half smile—check.

Optional one-sided dimple—check.

A few lines crinkling around his eyes to demonstrate that he’d been around—check.

Long nose and/or prominent nose that had once been broken or had a kink of some sort in it. The importance of an interesting nose on a man should never be underestimated. Perfect noses on men meant bland good looks. The noticeably imperfect nose meant intriguing good looks. Why was this? Lia had no idea, but he had a definite check in the nose department.

Blue eyes—check. Eye color had never mattered to Lia, but blue eyes seemed to always come with this type.

Ability to slouch attractively…She looked at him lounging against the door frame. An A+ slouch. Check.

Button-down shirt with cuffs rolled up—check.

Jeans carefully worn and faded in just the right places—she’d give him a check even though she hadn’t seen the rear view because any guy who fit the type this exactly was bound to be wearing a pair that hugged his butt to his best advantage.

Broken-in boots—check.

Voice…here he didn’t get a check because the template voice was usually a tenor. When he spoke, this man’s surprisingly deep, lush bass pulsed all the way through her like the vibrate setting on a bed in a cheap motel.

Oh, and the attitude. He definitely had the I-can-be-reformed-by-the-right-woman attitude, accompanied by the care-to-try? twist to his mouth. Double and triple check.

As though she was interested in wasting time reforming anyone. He was not her type, except that she hadn’t quite found anyone who was her type, and in the meantime parts of her had decided that he would do and were reacting accordingly.

Stupid parts.

“You said you were the assistant manager,” he said. “That must make you Lia.”

She braced herself against the unwanted vibrations from his voice and said nothing, although she’d never heard her name poured from a man’s mouth in quite that way.

“Pretty name for a pretty girl,” he offered.

“You can do better than that.”

“I can.” He smiled his one-dimpled half smile. “But you haven’t convinced me to try.”

And she wouldn’t. She had work to do. She had computers to dry and pinks to order and Chinese phrases to figure out.

And make no mistake, she was aware that she was alone, at night, in the back office of a closed bridal salon with a strange man. Just because she wasn’t getting any weird vibes—the ones caused by his voice didn’t count—didn’t mean all was well. “That’s because I want you to leave, Jimmy’s Cousin.”

“Call me J.C.”

For Jimmy’s Cousin? Oh, please. “How did you get in here, J.C.?”

Holding up his hand, he dangled a key. Both Tuxedo Park and the bridal salon had the same key, so that explained that. However…“How did you get the key?”

“From Jimmy.”

“And does Jimmy know you have his key?”

His smile faded for the first time. Straightening, he said, “Yes.” And held her gaze until something in hers told him she believed him.

Nodding to the computer propped next to the fan, he said, “Good luck with that,” and left.

Just left. Which was exactly what she wanted him to do.

She turned off the fan in time to hear him lock the front door and thought about checking to see if he’d actually gone out before locking it, but didn’t. Instinct told her that she didn’t have to worry about him. Instinct wasn’t much of a reason, but the way he’d held her gaze and seemed offended when she’d implied that he’d stolen Jimmy’s key worked for her.

There was a lot of psychology involved in selling bridal gowns and the most successful sales associates became shrewd judges of character and experts at figuring out subtexts. Lia’s instincts had served her well and she had no reason to think they wouldn’t this time.

Moments later, she heard J.C. in the Tuxedo Park dressing room. And that was that.

Except that wasn’t that. In spite of herself, she strained to hear what he was up to when she should have been concentrating on her computer disaster.

JORDAN CHRISTIAN UNROLLED his sleeping bag on the padded bench in the back fitting room. Going next door to see what Lia looked like had been a bad idea. Bad, bad idea.

Bad, because he liked what he saw. Bad, because she did, too. Bad, because she wasn’t going to admit it. Bad, because he was going to make her admit it.

Yeah, he was. Assistant Manager Lia had issued a challenge with her I’m-all-about-my-work attitude and her you-don’t-do-it-for-me expression. It had been a long time since Jordan had encountered a challenge he felt like accepting.

And Lia of the red cheeks, the slicked-back ponytail and the buttoned-up shirt all the sales associates wore was one heck of a challenge.

Jordan had used his best stuff on her, too. Little songs—women had fainted over his little songs—the smile, the drawl…none of it’d worked.

’Course, she was mad about frying her computer, but Jordan figured his best stuff wouldn’t have worked anyway. Either he was rusty, a very real possibility, or she’d convinced herself that men were a distraction from her career. Maybe both.

He lay back on the sleeping bag and crossed his arms behind his head. When he’d first seen Elizabeth Gray, the owner of the salon, he’d thought she was so tightly wound that when she finally did spring loose, he’d hear the twang wherever he happened to be at the time. As her assistant, Lia was trying to be exactly like her. That was just wrong.

Because he was spending nights here, he’d overheard them talking the past few days, long after the place had closed down and regular folks had gone home to their families. He’d learned that the wedding-dress business was deadly serious, when he figured it would be all smiles and giggles and happiness. That seemed wrong, too.

There had to be a song in there somewhere.

Jordan got his musical inspiration from traveling around the country, working odd jobs and observing people. It kept him grounded and connected to his audience.

He might spend a day or two somewhere, or he might spend a couple of months, depending on whether he was recognized or not. No timetable, except that he was due back in Nashville next week to start his new CD. If he had a relative to visit, as he did here in Rocky Falls, so much the better. Since he was performing on most holidays, he liked connecting with family when he could.

During his travels, he’d slept in barns, his truck, lots of bed-and-breakfasts, campgrounds and more than a few tacky motels, but he’d never before slept in the dressing room of a store. It was now one of his favorites. He could work on his music without bothering Jimmy in his apartment, and until everybody left, he enjoyed listening to the women talk.

Jordan liked women, but contrary to his ladies’-man image, he avoided the groupies and the singing hopefuls who wanted to latch on to him. That didn’t mean he wasn’t tempted, but early in his career, he’d learned that one-night stands left him broody and hollow. Women were too often dazzled by Jordan Christian, the singer, and forgot about Jordan Christian, the man.

To be honest, part of Lia’s appeal was that she not only didn’t recognize him, it wouldn’t matter if she did. She wasn’t the dazzled type. She also wasn’t the type to pull up stakes and follow him back to Nashville thinking he had more time to give to a relationship than he did.