from the broad shoulders, he was also lean-waisted, slim-hipped, long-legged. Built like he’d been molded out of clay by an artist trying to depict the perfect male form.
Why in the name of God is he going out with you?
She wasn’t being overly modest or highly critical of her own appeal. In fact, Marissa knew she was somewhat attractive.
Not beautiful, by any means. Not with her funky ears and her too-thin hair—which looked particularly lank now that she’d taken it out of that bun and left it hanging loose. Then there was the hint of a belly she could never totally flatten, no matter how many death-by-sit-up sessions she endured at the gym.
She’d cop to nice-looking, maybe a little sexy—she did have good legs and perky boobs that didn’t even need a Wonderbra—but she wasn’t drop-dead stunning. She might turn a few heads but no way would she ever cause gawking guys to step into traffic or obsessed secret admirers to send sky-banners into the air proclaiming her hotness.
So why on earth would this hunky guy want to be with her? Unless, of course, he’d been telling the truth—that he just wanted to get to know the girl who’d ditched her underwear.
That spoke of someone with a sense of humor. Someone who was interested in more than just physical appearance, and actually cared about personality. Someone she could like. A lot.
But oh, did she ever hope there was some lust there, too.
“Hi, see you found it,” he said as he entered the Irish restaurant he’d sent her to, a cute place that was more trendy than publike. He smelled clean and fresh and spicy, his subtle aftershave making her think of all good things male. “And I see you found something else to wear?”
She glanced down at her new clothes. In popular Annapolis, it hadn’t taken her more than a half hour to find a shop and grab a pair of casual pants and a lightweight sweater, and not break her bank doing it. She’d changed into the outfit in the restaurant’s ladies’ room. She’d put her underwear back on, too. The pants fit fine…no panty lines.
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