barter.
He didn’t.
‘I can write you a cheque or wire the deposit directly into your business account now.’ His lips quirked. ‘If you’ll give me back my phone, that is.’
His gaze dropped to her hips and she gripped the counter, trying not to squirm.
She may have lost weight since her teenage years and learned to highlight her good assets while minimising the bad but having her body scrutinised, especially by a hot guy, never failed to make her old inadequacies flare.
Were her hips too wide? Her waist too thick? Her butt too big? While the vintage fashion she embraced made the most of her curves, having a guy like him study her made her want to duck behind the counter.
She’d had her fair share of admiring glances from men before: it was what could develop from those glances that had her skittish despite being in the place she felt most comfortable.
‘You do have it hidden away in that skirt of yours? Or have you performed some fancy trick and confiscated it for good?’
Her hand dived into her deep pocket and fumbled around for it, eager to hand it over and stop that potent blue-eyed gaze burning a hole in the metallic threaded eyelet lace of her favourite full-skirted polka dot dress.
‘Here.’
As she handed it over their fingers brushed and a jolt akin to an electrical surge shot up her arm and zapped her in places that hadn’t been zapped in a long, long time.
Not good.
The guys she occasionally dated were as far removed from this guy as her vintage dress from his designer suit. Arty guys, musicians, laid-back guys who liked a Bohemian lifestyle far removed from the pressures of modern life.
Those were the type of guys who attracted her. Not career-driven, wealthy guys who could schmooze anyone into doing anything with their natural charms.
She should know. She’d tried one on for size once and was still wishing she’d got a refund while she could.
‘Thanks.’
If that brief touch of fingertips hadn’t been bad enough, his genuine smile made her knees quake ever so slightly and she hid her nerves behind snappiness.
‘I don’t even know your name,’ she said, fiddling with the baskets of hair clips on the counter, rearranging them in carefully constructed disorder.
‘Chase Etheridge.’
He held out his hand and she swallowed, silently cursing her stupidity. Of course he’d want to do the polite thing and shake hands. Something she could’ve coped with at any other time but hot on the heels of her bizarre reaction a few moments ago? Trouble.
‘Lola Lombard.’
‘Lovely name.’
His gaze locked on hers and held. ‘Beautiful.’
And as she reluctantly placed her hand in his, and his fingers curled over hers, firm and warm and comforting, she almost believed for a fleeting second she was.
CHAPTER THREE
IN DESPERATE need of a calming cup of chamomile tea, Lola had just flicked the kettle switch on when Imogen breezed back in from her break, her face flushed as she clasped her hands to her chest.
‘Was that the Chase Etheridge just leaving?’
She craned her neck, trying to get a last glimpse while Lola wrinkled her nose, more than happy to see the back of him.
‘What was he doing here? He is sooo hot! Melbourne’s most eligible bachelor for the third year running. No wonder, with those blue eyes, all year round tan, great smile, broad chest, cute butt—’
‘Enough all ready.’
The last thing she needed right now was for her co-worker to list the guy’s impressive attributes. Sadly, she’d noted them in minute detail herself and her nerves hadn’t recovered despite him exiting the building.
Imogen sighed, her green eyes twinkling as she clapped her hands. ‘Spill. What was he doing here?’
For a moment she wanted to tease her best friend but no way would Immy believe for one second that Chase was here on anything other than business. As if a guy like him would be interested in a girl like her for any other reason.
‘He wants to use our services.’
‘I can help service—’
‘His sister’s getting married and he wants Go Retro to do the hen’s night.’
‘Cool.’
Imogen edged into the tiny kitchen, grabbed her favourite ‘I’m too sexy’ mug and placed it next to hers. ‘While you’re weaving your magic with the hen and her posse, I’ll entertain Chase.’
Imogen did a little shimmy as she spooned decaf into her cup. ‘This is going to be fun.’
‘It is,’ Lola said, biting back a smile. ‘Though this gig’s a bit different.’
‘How so?’ Imogen added a shoulder wiggle to her hip shimmy. ‘Does Chase need me to sleep over? Do some serious preparation for the hen’s night? Because I’ll do it, you know. I’m that kind of gal, totally dedicated to getting the job done whatever’s required and—’
‘Not you. Me.’
Lola often had to interrupt her friend mid-sentence otherwise the simplest of questions elicited a five minute long response.
This time, she enjoyed the confusion crinkling Immy’s brow.
‘You?’
The kettle clicked off and she poured boiling water into their cups.
‘I’m the one that’ll be staying over.’
Immy’s jaw dropped, her mouth a perfect crimson glossed circle.
Enjoying her friend’s momentary silence—it wouldn’t last long—she dangled the chamomile bag.
‘Apparently he’s willing to pay for the privilege of having Go Retro run a week-long hen’s party for his sis, no expenses spared, so while I’m doing that you’ll be running the shop here.’
Imogen snapped her mouth shut into a mutinous line.
‘Come on, Immy, we’re a team. I run the workshops, you run this place when I’m not around. It works.’
The corners of Imogen’s mouth twitched. ‘Yeah, I know, but the thought of you rather than me getting up close and personal with that scrummy bachelor of the year makes me greener than Kermit.’
‘I won’t be getting up close and personal with anyone.’
Let alone an overconfident,
