Alex
Page 5
The bell over the front door chimes, indicating a visitor. We don’t have much foot traffic with most appointments being scheduled, but none of the other counselors are showing any appointments at this time so it’s unusual for someone to be stopping by.
When I look up, I’m momentarily stunned speechless by what may possibly be a mirage. It has to be, because seriously…it’s beyond belief.
He’s beyond belief.
In fact, he’s beyond my imagination.
A man walks in, the early afternoon sun outlining a massive body. He has to be at least six-five, six-six with a solid chest, narrow waist and pretty big guns hanging from his shoulders. For a man so large, I’m surprised to note he moves with a natural grace. Charcoal gray dress slacks and a lightweight black sweater are molded to his body, showcasing dips and valleys of muscles that you see only in men’s health magazines.
If I thought his body was incredible, I almost pass out once I take full stock of his face. It’s enough to make angels weep, and I consciously close my mouth as I realize my jaw has flopped open in disbelief.
Dark, dark hair…almost black, but most definitely the deepest mahogany, is worn midlength, chopped in helter-skelter layers around his face. The front portion of bangs sweeps left to right across his forehead, while chunks stick up this way and that around his entire head. His face, if cast in marble, would be sought after by all of the world’s finest art galleries. Strong jaw covered in dark stubble, high cheekbones, straight-as-an-arrow nose, and even from fifteen feet away and with the sun at his back, I can see the most crystalline blue eyes I’ve ever beheld on a human being.
The last thing I notice about him—because holy hell, I’ve noticed quite a bit—is that his lips are full, the bottom one just a little puffier than the top. Said lips, which may be the most perfect in existence, are now quirking upward into a smirk and the first thing I think is, I wonder what he could do with that mouth.
The second thing I think?
He’s smirking at me because I am so openly checking him out, even at this very moment.
Maybe because my brain has been addled by such magnificence, or maybe because I’ve never been one to get easily embarrassed, I don’t even have a shred of decency that will cause me to cast my eyes away in shyness or shame.
So I hold his look as he walks up to the desk, places his palms flat on the Formica-topped surface and hits me with a brilliantly sexy smile that almost blinds me, and most definitely causes a pang low in my belly.
“I can see you recognize me,” he says, his voice deep and slightly accented.
I blink at him hard, his words penetrating, but not really. I’m still too dazzled by the whiteness of his teeth, and I’d swear I saw one tooth actually cast a sparkle.
“Um…excuse me?” I say, because I have no clue who this is or why he’s here, or why I should recognize him. Maybe he’s a famous model or an actor, and I rack my brain trying to place his face.
His smile turns into a bit of a frown and his brow furrows. “You don’t recognize me, do you?”
For some insane reason, I feel terrible because I don’t know who he is and he seems to be hurt by that. No, not hurt…that’s not quite right.
Intrigued?
Yes, maybe intrigued.
Sending my brain into overdrive while it searches my memory for every movie, soap opera or fashion magazine I’ve ever read, I flounder around trying to come up with this man’s name.
“Alex Crossman,” he says, letting me off the hook. “I have an appointment with Sutton Price.”
Son of a bitch.
This is Alexander Crossman? Star player of the Cold Fury and potential GQ model, my new cohort in creating an outreach program for troubled youth and overall putz for being late and not calling? I don’t know whether to have an orgasm or be pissed that he’s walking in thirty minutes after our scheduled appointment.
“You’re late, Mr. Crossman,” I say, disapproval ringing through. “By about half an hour.”
He doesn’t look the slightest bit chagrined, but his smile turns even brighter. Removing his hands from the desk, he actually sets a hip along the edge and I swallow hard as I notice the taut thigh muscles staring me in the face as the material of his slacks pulls against his leg. I make myself—absolutely make myself—immediately raise my eyes to his so I don’t inadvertently look at what may be in between those thighs, because somehow I imagine it has to be as magnificent as the rest of him.
Nodding over to the couch in the corner, I say, “If you’ll have a seat, it will be a moment.”
He doesn’t move from the desk but just stares down at me, his smile no longer showing the brilliance of white but rather tilted up in amusement at me.
“Tell you what,” he says as he leans in a bit closer and murmurs, “I’ll go sit and patiently wait if you let me cook you dinner at my place tonight.”
The muscles in my face go lax and with no means of support, my jaw drops open again. Alex Crossman, professional hockey player and most gorgeous man on the planet—nay, the universe—just asked me out?
No wait…that wasn’t asking me out on a date…that was asking me to his apartment.
For dinner.
A private dinner…in a private place.
Warning bells go off in my head and I realize with absolute clarity that Mr. Crossman extended that invitation with the hopes of getting in my pants.
Of all the—
Okay, again, not sure whether to orgasm or be offended.
When I look up, I’m momentarily stunned speechless by what may possibly be a mirage. It has to be, because seriously…it’s beyond belief.
He’s beyond belief.
In fact, he’s beyond my imagination.
A man walks in, the early afternoon sun outlining a massive body. He has to be at least six-five, six-six with a solid chest, narrow waist and pretty big guns hanging from his shoulders. For a man so large, I’m surprised to note he moves with a natural grace. Charcoal gray dress slacks and a lightweight black sweater are molded to his body, showcasing dips and valleys of muscles that you see only in men’s health magazines.
If I thought his body was incredible, I almost pass out once I take full stock of his face. It’s enough to make angels weep, and I consciously close my mouth as I realize my jaw has flopped open in disbelief.
Dark, dark hair…almost black, but most definitely the deepest mahogany, is worn midlength, chopped in helter-skelter layers around his face. The front portion of bangs sweeps left to right across his forehead, while chunks stick up this way and that around his entire head. His face, if cast in marble, would be sought after by all of the world’s finest art galleries. Strong jaw covered in dark stubble, high cheekbones, straight-as-an-arrow nose, and even from fifteen feet away and with the sun at his back, I can see the most crystalline blue eyes I’ve ever beheld on a human being.
The last thing I notice about him—because holy hell, I’ve noticed quite a bit—is that his lips are full, the bottom one just a little puffier than the top. Said lips, which may be the most perfect in existence, are now quirking upward into a smirk and the first thing I think is, I wonder what he could do with that mouth.
The second thing I think?
He’s smirking at me because I am so openly checking him out, even at this very moment.
Maybe because my brain has been addled by such magnificence, or maybe because I’ve never been one to get easily embarrassed, I don’t even have a shred of decency that will cause me to cast my eyes away in shyness or shame.
So I hold his look as he walks up to the desk, places his palms flat on the Formica-topped surface and hits me with a brilliantly sexy smile that almost blinds me, and most definitely causes a pang low in my belly.
“I can see you recognize me,” he says, his voice deep and slightly accented.
I blink at him hard, his words penetrating, but not really. I’m still too dazzled by the whiteness of his teeth, and I’d swear I saw one tooth actually cast a sparkle.
“Um…excuse me?” I say, because I have no clue who this is or why he’s here, or why I should recognize him. Maybe he’s a famous model or an actor, and I rack my brain trying to place his face.
His smile turns into a bit of a frown and his brow furrows. “You don’t recognize me, do you?”
For some insane reason, I feel terrible because I don’t know who he is and he seems to be hurt by that. No, not hurt…that’s not quite right.
Intrigued?
Yes, maybe intrigued.
Sending my brain into overdrive while it searches my memory for every movie, soap opera or fashion magazine I’ve ever read, I flounder around trying to come up with this man’s name.
“Alex Crossman,” he says, letting me off the hook. “I have an appointment with Sutton Price.”
Son of a bitch.
This is Alexander Crossman? Star player of the Cold Fury and potential GQ model, my new cohort in creating an outreach program for troubled youth and overall putz for being late and not calling? I don’t know whether to have an orgasm or be pissed that he’s walking in thirty minutes after our scheduled appointment.
“You’re late, Mr. Crossman,” I say, disapproval ringing through. “By about half an hour.”
He doesn’t look the slightest bit chagrined, but his smile turns even brighter. Removing his hands from the desk, he actually sets a hip along the edge and I swallow hard as I notice the taut thigh muscles staring me in the face as the material of his slacks pulls against his leg. I make myself—absolutely make myself—immediately raise my eyes to his so I don’t inadvertently look at what may be in between those thighs, because somehow I imagine it has to be as magnificent as the rest of him.
Nodding over to the couch in the corner, I say, “If you’ll have a seat, it will be a moment.”
He doesn’t move from the desk but just stares down at me, his smile no longer showing the brilliance of white but rather tilted up in amusement at me.
“Tell you what,” he says as he leans in a bit closer and murmurs, “I’ll go sit and patiently wait if you let me cook you dinner at my place tonight.”
The muscles in my face go lax and with no means of support, my jaw drops open again. Alex Crossman, professional hockey player and most gorgeous man on the planet—nay, the universe—just asked me out?
No wait…that wasn’t asking me out on a date…that was asking me to his apartment.
For dinner.
A private dinner…in a private place.
Warning bells go off in my head and I realize with absolute clarity that Mr. Crossman extended that invitation with the hopes of getting in my pants.
Of all the—
Okay, again, not sure whether to orgasm or be offended.
