way, I’m certain that if I knew this man, I’d remember him.
You don’t forget someone that attractive. Admitting that he ’s gorgeous has me feeling guilty all over again. I shouldn’t be checking out some stranger the way I did today. I definitely shouldn’t be getting myself off to him. I shouldn’t be so drawn to him, but I am. I’m married. Not to mention the fact that said stranger is also the man who lucked out and got a life saving transplant from my husband. It’s the biggest conflict of interest I’ve ever run smack in to.
Honestly, the fact that he looks so enticing probably has everyt hing to do with the fact that I haven’t been touched by a man since Jake. I don’t plan on it either. I feel bad enough for what I did in the bathtub. Jake was my first and last. I gave my body to him when we said our vows. His death doesn’t mean that I get to renege on that promise. Even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t—I couldn’t—be with another man. The private thoughts about Zander are as far as it’s going to go.
Looking never hur t anyone, though, and denying that Zander is something to be admired is just dumb. Anyone with decent eyesight can see that man was blessed with perfect DNA where aesthetics are concerned.
He’s got hair the color of cinnamon . It’s short on the sides but long enough on top to look slightly mussed up even though his hair was combed to the side a little, displaying a jagged part. He probably uses his fingers to part his hair. Or maybe it just falls that way when he gets out of the shower. Either way, his style suits him well. His sideburns are closely groomed and perfectly straight. His eyes are a sapphire blue with gold-flecked eyelashes that any woman would die to have. The sun literally shined on him and made those lashes of his glitter. Men should not be allowed to have long, full eyelashes that glitter in the sunlight, showing off natural highlights. That should be reserved only for women like me who have to slather on mascara to get any kind of volume. He has high cheekbones and a sharp, defined jawline. There are traces of laugh lines around his mouth, but they’re only traces, as far as I can tell. I didn’t see any lightheartedness in him today. A little ache of dismay fills my chest at the thought that he may not smile or laugh much. I mean—I know that I don’t smile or laugh, either, but for some reason I don’t care about me and my lackluster existence, just his. I bet he has a great laugh. I imagine it’s one of those laughs that feels contagious. He has a dusting of facial hair that gives him a kind of rugged look that I’m sure only looks even better when he’s laughing or smiling. A little tug at my heart has me closing my eyes, thinking about the stunning man that I met today.
I noticed a small, thin scar on his cheek when we met on the beach today. It can’t be more than a half an inch long , but it’s there. It makes me wonder where he got it and why in the hell that teeny tiny scar makes him even more attractive. I find myself wanting to touch it. I want to run the pads of my fingers along the line of that scar. I imagine brushing my lips over the scarred tissue.
“Oh my God,” I groan, reaching for the pillow beside me and burying my face in it.
I’d love to stay here all night chiding myself just like this, but my stomach is protesting my lack of sustenance. Food and Zander now occupy my mind more than the detective on the television set.
I reach for the telephone on the nightstand and press “ 1” for the front desk.
“Beachcomber Inn,” Dawn greets.
“Hey, Dawn, it’s Sadie Parker in room four.”
“Oh, what can I do for ya, sweetie?” she chirps happily.
“ I was wondering what restaurants deliver here?”
“ Oh, okay. Well, there’s Ugo’s Pizzeria just down the block. They have great Italian food. I have their number if you want it. And then there’s Big Daddy’s Smokehouse. It’s a little place at the end of the
You don’t forget someone that attractive. Admitting that he ’s gorgeous has me feeling guilty all over again. I shouldn’t be checking out some stranger the way I did today. I definitely shouldn’t be getting myself off to him. I shouldn’t be so drawn to him, but I am. I’m married. Not to mention the fact that said stranger is also the man who lucked out and got a life saving transplant from my husband. It’s the biggest conflict of interest I’ve ever run smack in to.
Honestly, the fact that he looks so enticing probably has everyt hing to do with the fact that I haven’t been touched by a man since Jake. I don’t plan on it either. I feel bad enough for what I did in the bathtub. Jake was my first and last. I gave my body to him when we said our vows. His death doesn’t mean that I get to renege on that promise. Even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t—I couldn’t—be with another man. The private thoughts about Zander are as far as it’s going to go.
Looking never hur t anyone, though, and denying that Zander is something to be admired is just dumb. Anyone with decent eyesight can see that man was blessed with perfect DNA where aesthetics are concerned.
He’s got hair the color of cinnamon . It’s short on the sides but long enough on top to look slightly mussed up even though his hair was combed to the side a little, displaying a jagged part. He probably uses his fingers to part his hair. Or maybe it just falls that way when he gets out of the shower. Either way, his style suits him well. His sideburns are closely groomed and perfectly straight. His eyes are a sapphire blue with gold-flecked eyelashes that any woman would die to have. The sun literally shined on him and made those lashes of his glitter. Men should not be allowed to have long, full eyelashes that glitter in the sunlight, showing off natural highlights. That should be reserved only for women like me who have to slather on mascara to get any kind of volume. He has high cheekbones and a sharp, defined jawline. There are traces of laugh lines around his mouth, but they’re only traces, as far as I can tell. I didn’t see any lightheartedness in him today. A little ache of dismay fills my chest at the thought that he may not smile or laugh much. I mean—I know that I don’t smile or laugh, either, but for some reason I don’t care about me and my lackluster existence, just his. I bet he has a great laugh. I imagine it’s one of those laughs that feels contagious. He has a dusting of facial hair that gives him a kind of rugged look that I’m sure only looks even better when he’s laughing or smiling. A little tug at my heart has me closing my eyes, thinking about the stunning man that I met today.
I noticed a small, thin scar on his cheek when we met on the beach today. It can’t be more than a half an inch long , but it’s there. It makes me wonder where he got it and why in the hell that teeny tiny scar makes him even more attractive. I find myself wanting to touch it. I want to run the pads of my fingers along the line of that scar. I imagine brushing my lips over the scarred tissue.
“Oh my God,” I groan, reaching for the pillow beside me and burying my face in it.
I’d love to stay here all night chiding myself just like this, but my stomach is protesting my lack of sustenance. Food and Zander now occupy my mind more than the detective on the television set.
I reach for the telephone on the nightstand and press “ 1” for the front desk.
“Beachcomber Inn,” Dawn greets.
“Hey, Dawn, it’s Sadie Parker in room four.”
“Oh, what can I do for ya, sweetie?” she chirps happily.
“ I was wondering what restaurants deliver here?”
“ Oh, okay. Well, there’s Ugo’s Pizzeria just down the block. They have great Italian food. I have their number if you want it. And then there’s Big Daddy’s Smokehouse. It’s a little place at the end of the
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