It gives me warm fuzzies, activating memories of hunting retro collectibles like this at garage sales.
Happy times indeed.
This lunch box would be a perfect keepsake box to store some postcards in.
“Come to Bryn,” I say, transfixed, because that is one adorable dog adorning the vintage red metal lunch box.
I march straight to it, reaching for the handle, and a set of masculine fingers curl around the metal right after mine do.
“What the . . .?” I blink, look up, and holy mother of eye contact.
The man grabbing the lunch box is conducting a master class on how to smolder from head to toe.
This guy is all suit.
His dark-blue two-piece is clearly custom tailored, which is the only kind of suit a good-looking man should ever wear. It hugs his body, the shirt making it damn clear his stomach is flat as a board.
He doesn’t wear a tie.
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.
