The Third Kiss. Leanna Wilson
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It wasn’t just work. She was committed to helping the children placed in her care.
A woman sped past her, knocking into her with a sharp elbow. Brooke shook her head with consternation. Must be some sale, Brooke thought to herself.
Peggy looked over her shoulder, “Maybe you can find some new jeans.”
“What’s wrong with mine?” Brooke asked, glancing down at her faded Wrangler jeans. Some of her patients didn’t even have clothes to call their own. “Took me a few years just to break these in.”
Brooke walked beneath a banner, and a storm of commotion erupted around her. Sirens wailed. A mariachi band kicked into high gear, the trumpets blaring, a drum’s rhythm vibrating in her ears. A band? What the heck was happening?
Brooke faltered but kept moving forward with the surging crowd behind her. A chorus of cheers erupted from the customers packing into the store like sardines. Clapping thundered in her ears, echoing the beat of her heart. She glanced around and noticed vibrant red and yellow balloons clustered together. A wave of balloons tumbled over her with ribbons and tiny bits of paper twirling in the air conditioner’s breeze. Bright crepe paper decorations were strung along the windows and across the ceiling. She blinked against the waterfall of confetti.
What was this, a party? A surprise party? Had the guest of honor arrived behind her? Must be someone famous. Maybe even the head of Cutter Enterprises.
Turning, Brooke searched the crowd but saw no one she recognized. But then, she didn’t keep track of celebrities. Deciding it was time to go home, she searched for Peggy.
Her friend stood a few feet in front of her. She’d dropped her packages at her feet. Her features brightened with surprise and delight. “You did it. You’re the one, Brooke!”
“Did what?” Had she set off some weird shoplifting alarm? She wasn’t carrying any merchandise. Heck, she hadn’t even made it to the rows of boots, Stetsons and jeans. “What’d I do?”
Like the Red Sea parting, the wall of people in front of Brooke opened up. A tall man, wearing a black Stetson that shaded his deep-set, midnight-blue eyes, stepped forward. Instantly she recognized the famous Cutter.
She’d seen his picture prominently displayed on television and in the papers ever since he’d taken over his family’s company. He was the Cutter family’s pride and CEO, San Antonio’s Prince Charming, every woman’s fantasy.
Every woman except her.
She had to admit he was even sexier and more virile in person than any of the photos she’d ever seen. An energy seemed to radiate off him like heat shimmers off asphalt. He drew everyone’s attention, including Brooke’s.
Then Brooke noticed that his penetrating, unnerving gaze was aimed at her. He moved toward her, gave her a knock-your-boots-off smile, doffed his cowboy hat, revealing thick, wavy black hair, and held out his hand. To her!
“Welcome to Cutter’s.” His voice sounded as deep and rich as his wealthy pockets. “I’m Matt Cutter.”
Numbed by the shrill music and chaos, her brain clicked into autopilot. She shook his hand. But there was nothing mechanical or common about his warm palm pressed against hers, the strength in his fingers engulfing her hand or the electric shock that jarred her out of her trance.
Every nerve ending in her body vibrated. Her senses sharpened, blocking out the confusion and noise around her. Confident and bold, he took center stage, similar to the way he’d taken over his family’s company a few years back. His gaze was as intense and focused as a spotlight.
Brooke’s pulse skittered crazily in response. She noticed the way his Western shirt and jeans accented his broad shoulders, trim torso, slim hips and long, well-muscled legs. For an instant her brain registered that his starched jeans were slightly faded and the seam along his fly frayed. Awareness, red-hot and shocking, rocked through her.
Giving herself a mental shake, she blinked and withdrew her hand. Brooke cloaked herself in a professional demeanor, the one she used when a client shocked her with some intimate or appalling fact.
“Do you welcome all your customers with this much fanfare?” she asked, her voice lifting above the racket from the band and crowd.
His eyes brightened with humor, making them magnetic, and the corners crinkled. He grinned, throwing her off balance again. She had to get her reaction to him under control. What was wrong with her? Maybe the heat of the summer day had gotten to her. Or maybe it was the noise surrounding them, crowding her.
“Not usually,” he said. His words were laced with laughter, making his voice rich, vibrant, irresistible. “But we’ve made an exception. Just for you.”
The way his voice dropped, emphasizing the last word, made the statement intimate and caused her stomach to dip crazily. She could almost believe him, almost imagine him waiting for her. Just her.
You’ve lost it, Brooke. Really lost it!
She shook loose the strange effect he had on her and held her hand against her jumpy stomach. He was resistible. Just like every man she’d ever met. Prince Charming was a fairy tale, a feminine fantasy created to compensate for the helplessness women often felt. Well, she was not powerless.
Besides, Prince Charming had never worn a Stetson.
“You’re our one millionth customer,” he said, his eyes glittering as flashes of cameras went off around them like fireworks. “Congratulations.”
“But I didn’t buy anything.” She protested, wishing her fairy godmother would suddenly appear, wave her magic wand and make her vanish into thin air. The sudden attention made her squirm inside. Or maybe the odd sensation was Matt Cutter’s fault. No, she wouldn’t accept that possibility.
“You didn’t have to purchase anything. You’re the millionth customer to visit our original store.”
Her face burned with the same self-consciousness she’d experienced as a teen when her mother had forced her to attend all those debutante balls. She’d resisted, rebelled against the spectacle. She much preferred her quiet, uncomplicated life to this chaos.
The crowd seemed to be staring right at her. Or envying her, she thought, as she noticed women jostling each other to get a closer look at the CEO of Cutter Enterprises. She tried to ignore her own reaction to his charismatic eyes and chiseled features.
“But customer,” she argued, “implies I bought something. I didn’t intend to—”
He closed the gap between them and cut off her remark. “You didn’t have to.”
His nearness frayed her carefully controlled nerves. “Why don’t you pick someone else?”
Hands shot into the air, vying for Matt’s attention. Brooke’s ears rang as the women surrounding them called out to Matt, “Pick me! Me! Me!”
Matt shook his head. “You’re the one.”
“I don’t want to be the one.” His one. Anyone’s one!
“Neither of us has a choice.” His gaze sharpened, and she had a keen sense that he would have liked to have chosen someone else. Anyone else. She wasn’t headline material. She wasn’t the type of woman to grace covers of magazines. She was ordinary…plain. And difficult.
Peggy jostled her arm. “Your mother is going to flip!”
Brooke shuddered to think of her mother’s reaction. “The only thing that would make my mother happy is if I showed up with a husband. You’re not selling any of those, are you, Matt Cutter?”
“Maybe she’ll be impressed with a few other prizes,” Matt said, looping her arm through his. When he tucked her close to his side she felt as hot as a Texas heat wave.
Pressed against his well-honed frame, Brooke heard alarms go off in her head. He made her feel weak, fragile and incredibly