Ties are crazy hot, but I’m down with the whole tieless trend, especially on him. Everything about this finely dressed man screams Bryn’s type, from the neat scruff on his jaw to the cut of his cheekbones to the thick swoop of his hair.

Hair that you could hold on to at just the right moment.

A fuck me do.

His hair is inviting with a capital I. So are his eyes, a deep, sensual shade of brown. The warm color draws me in for one, two, three seconds.

Some men are worth staring at.

Words of wisdom from my mom, who had all sorts of good advice when it came to life, love, and men.

So I don’t look away.

We’re zooming past four, five, then six seconds, and I’m not letting go. Not of the lunch box nor the eye contact. I want the lunch box for my heart, and I need the eye contact for my mind. Need the confirmation that the article is worth splashing across our home page next week.

“Nice lunch box,” I remark.

“Big fan of Snoopy,” he replies, his voice sexy and rumbly. My belly is flipping, my spine is tingling, and I am living proof of the power of eye contact.

Science rules.

“Same here,” I say, and we’re hardly talking about dogs, yet we are. “Such a great dog.”

“He’s a paragon of pooches,” the man quips.

“And a captain of irony,” I add, my fingers wrapping more tightly around the handle, asserting my claim on the collectible. I want my happiness fix.

“Some might call him a timeless icon who inspires generations.”

“I’d say he inspires fun,” I say, breathier than I expected.

“Fun can be very, very inspiring.” The gleam in his dark eyes suggests bedroom fun. The tingles along my spine tell me I’d be amenable to that.

For several scandalous seconds, my mind frolics to naughty pastures, wondering what he’d be like in bed. It’s not that I want to bang him right now. It’s just that I know what I like between the sheets.

But first, I have a lunch box to score.

We’re well past nine seconds of eye-banging and flirty banter, and I suspect we’re about to fight over the prize, judging from the firm grip he has on the handle. Do I let it go? Do I let him have it? It’s just a lunch box after all, but it’s also not. It’s a connection to someone I miss.

Sometimes a lunch box isn’t just a lunch box.

Go for what you want. Don’t let anyone hold you back.

More words of wisdom echo in my brain.

“I’ve had my eye on this for a while, and while I might have only spotted it a few minutes ago, it’s something I’ve wanted for months,” I say, keeping a firm grip on it, my other hand curled around my cup of tea.

His irises drift to my hand. “Yeah. I can see you’re kind of into the lunch box,” he says, like the words you’re kind of into taste good. Like they’re candy on his lips.

“I collect vintage kitsch. But you seem to want it too.” I glance down at our hands where our fingers touch.

“I do want it. It’s a gift for a seven-year-old.”

My pinky slides next to his thumb, and for a few seconds, the spark blurs my judgment. I’m about ready to give it to him, like a nice girl would, a nice girl who’d be swayed by the kid comment. But I’ve been that nice girl. I’ve given in to men. Tried to win their approval. Tried to give them more than they deserved.

Nope.

I’m not going to do it again.

I’m a badass businesswoman who sets her sights on her goals and then knocks them out of the park. There has to be another way to solve this thorny problem.

A quick scan of the store reveals another lunch box by the counter, not quite as cool as this one, but maybe I can throw him off the scent. “Let’s make a deal. We’ve got a little finders keepers going on, and we both know I spotted it first and grabbed it first.”

He arches a brow, his lips curving up in a curious grin. “So now this is a game of shotgun? Whoever calls it first nabs it?”

“That is generally how shopping works, yes,” I say, sensing victory is in my grasp. “What do you say we call this even? Snoopy’s mine, and you can have that fabulous one over there with the whole gang on it. What seven-year-old doesn’t love the entire Peanuts gang?”

His brown eyes narrow, but he keeps them on me. The wheels in his head seem to be turning. “I’m considering your offer, but there’s something I’d like⁠—”

“I have two!” The cheery voice comes from the shop owner as she cuts in. She hustles over to us with another Snoopy lunch box clutched to her chest, flush against her lavender paisley-print dress. “I saw you were both interested in the same one, so I popped into the back for the other one. One for you, lovey, and voilà, one for you too, dear,” she says, grandly bestowing the second one on the man like Oprah handing out wheels.

Damn, I definitely want to know what he’d like from me.

The man with the soulful brown eyes lets go of the lunch box I spotted first and takes the other one.

“Thank you,” he tells the shopkeeper, and I follow suit, thanking her too.

“I’m just so delighted this all worked out,” she says, and scurries to the counter. “I’ll be here when you’re ready.”

The man in the suit returns his gaze to me, briefly licking his lips. “Guess we don’t have to negotiate anymore,” he says, like this new turn of events is such a shame.

It does feel like a damn shame because there is eye contact and then there is skin-tingling, stomach-flipping, lust-at-first-sight eye contact. And this proves the hell out of my home page article. Eye contact is insanely powerful. But let’s not forget the unexpected finger contact either—unexpected because I’m pretty sure that kitschy gift shops selling vintage tchotchkes aren’t usually where you meet men who set your skin on fire.

Maybe he could set my skin on fire in other ways.

Maybe that’d make me happy too.

Maybe that’s what I need. After all, it’s been a while.

Go for it.

“Too bad we’ll never know if we could have struck a deal,” I say with a shrug too, teeing him up, waiting for him to remember the other thing he was saying. There’s something I’d like. Because I have a feeling what he’d like is my number. And I’d like to give it to him. To write it on his arm in lipstick.

Only, I want him to ask for it. I want him to want it. And to want me.

“I was looking forward to the negotiations,” he says, a lopsided grin playing on his lips.

“Were you thinking it’d be a knock-down, drag-out battle, or an everyone-walks-away-happy kind of negotiation?” I ask, drawing out the conversation, keeping him talking, because . . . Ask me for my number, you hot suit man.