The Closer

Because, God help him, she was the issue.

3

ER...SO MUCH FOR Paul Blart: Mall Cop, Jess thought as every hair on her body tingled with hypersensitive awareness. Honestly, when she’d turned around and saw him standing in the shop, a sonic boom of white-hot sexual attraction had blasted her so thoroughly it was a miracle she hadn’t been blown backward, spread eagle, like something out of a superhero-comics movie. Her skin still felt singed from the heat, her middle a simmering muddled mess.

It was unnerving, to say the least.

A healthy twenty-year-old woman, Jess was accustomed to looking at the occasional handsome man and experiencing a passing whiff of feminine interest. The recognition would flit through her mind as quickly and unremarkably as a half-formed thought, one that was soon dismissed and replaced with something else. Her gaze shifted to her left and a shivery breath slowly leaked out of her lungs.

Griffin Wicklow was another matter altogether.

One whiff of him, so to speak, and she’d turned into the proverbial bloodhound. And if the hammering of her pulse and the tightening of her nipples were any indication, a female one, at that.

In heat, naturally, she thought with a droll quirk of her lips.

She couldn’t have been any more stunned if she’d sprouted horns and grown a tail. This didn’t happen to her. It had never happened to her, as a matter of fact. On the rare occasions she’d dated anyone long enough to segue into an intimate relationship—rare being the operative word, because oddly enough, most men didn’t appreciate a woman who knew more about the engine under the hood than they did—desire had been something that had required...coaxing. Cultivating. A bit of persuasion.

It had never inexplicably slugged her across the middle with all the subtlety of a two-by-four.

It had never made her feel like icy fire had suddenly erupted beneath her skin.

More disturbingly, it had never made her nervous.

Being different had always demanded courage, so at this point in her life Jess could safely say that very little rattled her. And if it did, she’d eat glass and smile through the blood in her mouth before she’d admit it. She inwardly grinned.

It was part of her charm.

But the anxious energy presently twitching through her veins was something foreign and therefore more...concerning. She could literally feel him there, beside her, though they weren’t actually touching. Every confident turn of the wheel beneath his wide, blunt-tipped beautiful fingers, each breath that moved in and out of his lungs, the slightest shift of his mouthwatering shoulder as he negotiated traffic.

It was madness. Sheer, utter, God help her, thrilling madness.

Perhaps he’d be willing to drop her off at the nearest hospital, Jess thought with a futile smothered whimper, where she could take advantage of some serious psychological help.

Clearly a lobotomy wouldn’t be in order—she’d obviously already lost her friggin’ mind.

But how could she not when he looked like that? If he’d been merely handsome or even just striking, she’d like to think that she would have momentarily swooned, but then recovered. After all, it wasn’t as if good-looking men were that uncommon.

But fifteen minutes post meeting and she was still reeling, still toe-curlingly aware.

It was the hair, she ultimately decided. Curls did it to her every time. No doubt they were the bane of his existence and had garnered him endless teasing as a boy, but mercy, they were beautiful. Big and loose and messy, but easily styled as evidenced by a vague part that looked more as if a hand had done the work rather than a comb. And dark auburn, to boot, damn him. Her favorite color. Not quite brown, not quite red, but thousands of shades in between that caught the light.

The same color slashed boldly over eyes that were deeply lidded and equally riveting. Pinwheels of blue and green burst from his irises in wide, vibrant striations, as though Mother Nature couldn’t decide which hue best suited him, so she gave him both in equal measure.

In direct contrast with the unforgiving masculinity of his face—the bold nose, mile-high, stark cheekbones, angular jaw—curly bronze-tipped lashes framed those remarkable eyes, a feature she was sure he resented. She was suddenly hit with the insane urge to touch them, those lashes, to feel the springy curve of them against the pad of her thumb.

Madness, she thought again, balling her hands in her lap.

One would think the Almighty would have been a little more considerate of the fairer sex when doling out Griff’s finer features. For instance, because he’d been so liberal with his face, one would assume that, in fairness, Griff wouldn’t have been blessed with so spectacular a body. Jess slid a covert peek over his long, muscled profile, her belly clenching when it reached his thigh.

Wrong.

It, too, was equally stunning, equally divinely made. At five-eight, Jess was a tall woman and therefore was accustomed to barely lifting her chin to speak to someone with additional height. This man easily topped six and a half feet and every inch of his physique was perfectly honed, devoid of any softness or, God forbid, fat, she thought enviously. It was a body that commanded attention from both genders, one that was fit and naturally conditioned. He moved easily in his skin, walked with an economy of movement that was as graceful as it was purposeful. He wore a cream-colored sweater, the sleeves pushed up to reveal fine copper hair dusting his forearms, and jeans that were worn and sat low on his lean hips. A little too low, she noted dimly, as though he’d recently lost a little weight.

Jess imagined most every woman longed for one forbidden encounter, to be bowled over by the shock of unadulterated sexual desire, the kind that resulted in torn clothing, whisker burn and hot, broken epithets in conjunction with even hotter, mindless sex. Many women imagined this sort of sex, casting an A-list Hollywood actor as their star performer, herself included, on occasion.

But move over, Channing Tatum, because Griffin Wicklow had just taken top billing on her imaginary marquee.

How extraordinary, she thought wonderingly. How electrifying. How...stupid. She inwardly sagged like a spent party balloon.

He wasn’t just some random guy who’d inadvertently stumbled across her path and flipped her on switch—he was here in a professional capacity, to work, to protect her father’s creation and guard Montwheeler’s investment.

He was not here to play the starring role in her wild, frenzied jungle-movie sex fantasy. Assuming that he’d even want to, and that was debatable, at best. Her insecurities aside—and Lord knew they were considerable—Griffin Wicklow seemed too focused, too locked down, too controlled to engage in the sort of activity she was imagining. Not uptight, precisely, but—she sent him another glance, searching for the right word—disciplined, Jess decided. Nature or necessity? she couldn’t help but wonder, and for whatever reason, she knew she’d have to find out.

“Do you mind if we pull in at Sarah’s Gas-N-Go there on the corner?” she asked brightly, pointing up ahead. “I need to make a pit stop and get some snacks for the road.”

Predictably, the faintest flicker of a muscle jumped in his jaw. He cast a fleeting glance at the dashboard clock. “Of course. But make it quick, please. We’re on a tight schedule.”

Jess smothered a smile. Oh, she’d just bet they were.

He wheeled smoothly into the lot, drew up to the curb and shifted into Park.

“Aren’t you coming in?” she asked.

“I’ll wait.”

All righty then. “Can I get anything for you?”

He shook his head. “I’m good, thanks.”

Jess lifted a brow. “Not even a drink?”

“I’ve got bottled water in the back.”

Of course he did. And most likely protein bars and a first-aid kit, because this man was nothing if not prepared. Mr. Efficiency. Oh, this was going to be fun. She grinned and opened the door. “Okay, then. I’ll be right back.” She sincerely doubted her interpretation and his of “right back” would coincide, but...

Jess took care of necessary business, leisurely filled a Big Gulp at the soda fountain, then ambled down the candy aisle. She was having the usual salty versus sweet debate when a shadow fell over her right shoulder and she felt him looming behind her. She squashed an irrational grin and the urge to squirm. She’d wondered how long it would take him to come in after her.

She turned around and smiled delightedly—innocently—up at him. “Oh, you changed your mind,” she said, noting the case was in his hand. Diligent, naturally. She glanced back at the shelves, gave her head a little shake and winced thoughtfully. “I can’t decide if I want Fiery Jalapeño Nachos or a Nutty Nougat Bar. What are you getting?”

“You,” he said, his tone mildly grim. “Get both. We need to go.”

Though he didn’t touch her, she felt herded to the register all the same. Another odd little thrill whipped through her, churning her insides.

“Afternoon, Jess,” Sarah said, nodding as she rang up her purchase. “How are you this fine September day?”

“I’m good. How are you? Hip feeling better?” The elderly Sarah had taken a fall from a ladder in the spring while cleaning out her gutters. At least, that’s the story she told. Other members of Shadow’s Gap had indicated that Sarah had taken a fall out of bed, and that Ryland Morris had landed on top of her.

Knowing Sarah, who was presently sporting enough cleavage to make Dolly Parton jealous, Jess was more inclined to believe the latter.