glee. He looked her over and the gaze itself was like strong fingers sliding over her skin.
“Big Billy?”
Yes. Yes, she had said it out loud.
“Sorry. My apologies,” she choked out, and ran on her unsteady heels from the scene of the crime. On the first floor, safe behind her library counter, Philomena prayed for death. It did not come.
Right after lunch as she was checking out a gentleman with a substantial stack of books on the practice of Wicca, the first dirt shower came. A small clod rested on The Layman’s Grimoire, then a faint sifting decorated Everyone Witchcraft. Philomena steeled herself, looked up and got a nice piece of silt in her eye for her efforts. “Please, Billy! Please, I asked you three not to walk over me during patron hours.”
She mumbled her apologies and wiped the books clean and got the somewhat bemused customer on his way. Then she threw her head back, hands on hips, blood boiling as the boots did another pass overhead. It was the little Billy. The jaw thruster. But damn, what was his name? “Helloooo! Do you hear me?”
He paused, looked down into her eyes, grinned, jaw moving a mile a minute. “Sorry. Billy. Big Billy told me to hit the switch and the switch plate is over there, lady.”
“Ms. Troll,” she corrected.
“Right.”
Philomena bit her lip and steamed. She couldn’t argue, though. The switch plate for the main bank of lights was on the far wall. Which meant walking over her. “Fine. But that’s it. Please!”
“I’ll give it my best. Otherwise, take it up with Benjamin.”
“Ri-ight,” Philomena growled and wiped down her counter with some cleaner and a paper towel. This would not do. Not at all. But she knew that she would just have to soldier on. The more hours the three Billys could get during the day, the faster they would be done. And then they would be out. Them and their mess!
Next was a regular, and Philomena knew exactly what would be in his stack when he started self-checkout. Second World War, civil war, Korean War. War buff. Mr. Sinclair was his name, and he flirted shamelessly, but was 110 percent harmless. “Are they getting the upstairs all squared away then, Ms. Troll?” His voice was a mellifluous balm after the rattle and racket from the second floor.
“Not soon enough, Mr. Sinclair.”
He slid his stack over her way and cleaned his glasses with his shirttail. “I can tell you’re a wee bit worked up over the upheaval.”
Some insistent buzzing thump came from above her head and she cringed. “Yes, well…” More dirt! Right into her keyboard and right on top of Mr. Sinclair’s bald pate. A rage of blush fired her cheeks and she bit her tongue to keep from screaming. Still, Philomena threw back her head and though she tried not to, she howled, “Why are you walking over my head, Billy…the middle one!”
The middle Billy—dark blond hair with snowy-blue eyes—stopped and squatted. He gazed down at her, a mischievous grin split his rugged features. “Sorry, there, Philomena.”
“Ms. Troll!” The words ripped out so fiercely that her throat hurt. Mr. Sinclair’s watery brown eyes flew wide. The dirt on his scalp slid to the left. “So sorry, Mr. Sinclair. My deepest apologies.”
“Ms. Troll, I was told to plug in the sander, and the three-pronged outlet is right under the switch plate. So…” He shrugged, eyes twinkling. “A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. If it’s a problem, I can send Billy. Big Billy.” He chuckled, stood and his boots threw off more ick as he went. She dodged, and Mr. Sinclair scuttled off with his goods.
What could she say? Nothing. And she most certainly did not want to deal with Big Billy any more than necessary since he seemed to scramble her brain faster than a martini. Philomena wasn’t much of a drinker, and she didn’t seem to be much in the way of handling big handsome contractors with flashing green eyes.
Again with the cleaner and towels. Philomena kept looking up. She felt watched. Maybe it was simply the bizarre and overtly steamy mental movie playing in her head that had her on edge. No matter how hard she scrubbed the counter, she could imagine kissing him. That big, huge, irritating man. Kissing him on the lips and down over the stubbly jut of his jaw. Biting just below where his pulse jumped in a steady beat and down along his broad throat. Over the swell of his Adam’s apple, and then her kisses, in her head at least, went due south and she had to take a deep breath to steady herself. She could shut her eyes and feel the heat of his mouth closing over her nipple, tracing her hipbone and then lower still. Parting her legs and then feeling his lips, so close to where she wanted him, kissing the very top of her thighs. How would it feel to have his lips on her clit, probing her? How would his kisses feel when his heat closed over her willing pussy and licked her until she clutched the bedsheets in her trembling hands and—
Something hit Philomena on the head. Something hard. Definitely not dirt. Her eyes flew wide. “What the hell!” The words slipped out before she could stop herself. She ran her fingers over her scalp. Then she spotted the weapon. A blue ballpoint pen on the floor. “Simon! Simon?” One of the assistants came scuttling out.
“Yes, Ms. Troll?”
“Watch the counter.” Her eyes had found him. Over her. Hovering. Smiling!
“Oops! Sorry, Ms. Troll. I had to hook up the—”
Big Billy. The main man. The head honcho. The thorn in her side. The burr in her ass. Philomena pointed a finger at him and glared. “Stay. Right. There. Mr. Benjamin, I am coming.”
“I look forward to it.”
She blinked and her body responded with a warm flickering wave of excitement. “Do not be crude! Do. Not. Move.”
Simon looked as if he wanted to die on the spot. Instead, he wiped the counter again. Hers would be the cleanest counter in the land when all was said and done. Philomena stormed up the wide, stone steps, trying so hard to force aside the mental images that had her melting hot so that the anger that had her equally hot could emerge.
He had listened. There he stood, poised on the intricate floor, dirty work boots in a defiant stance. He held an industrial yellow three-pronged plug in one hand. His beat-up, faded jeans slung low on his hips and his cocky smile spread on his lips. “Mr. Benjamin!”
“Ma’am?”
“I…” Philomena blinked. What? You must work but you cannot plug that in? How dare you try for electricity? A grounded outlet? What?
“Yes?” He took a step toward her just as one of the other Billys, unseen at this point, fired some big machine in the rear of the stacks.
“I…I am very concerned because…” Damn. There she went again, trailing off. Her mind taking a right turn and putting her on her back with this big, dusty, cocky man climbing on top of her. Somewhere in the mental scenario he had lost his shirt. How had that happened? And a hard ridge of male excitement pressed the faded cotton of his fly.
“Because I didn’t obey?”
“Well, yes. I am the—”
“The boss. You are the boss. You’re used to being the boss, aren’t you, Troll?” He took three big
