Paralyzed

The stranger’s dark gaze suddenly locked onto Nathan, pinning him in place. He resisted the urge to fidget under the intense look. “Hello,” the man said. Nathan’s stomach twisted sharply when he heard his voice. It was deep and husky with a slight rasp Nathan felt all the way to the pit of his stomach. “Where’s your classic rock CD section?”

Surprised, Nathan tilted his head quizzically. He’d rarely been wrong about someone. Curiosity got the better of him and before he could stop himself, Nathan stepped forward to help. He normally let Quinn deal with the customers while he stocked shelves and changed the sale signs. “This way,” he offered quietly, beckoning the man to follow him.

He could sense Quinn studying him in question, but Nathan ignored him. The scent of a woodsy aftershave washed over Nathan the moment the customer came closer. “Are you looking for something in particular?”

While waiting for the man’s response, he took the time to look the tall stranger over. Dark chestnut hair was brushed into a short, neat cut that made the strong angles of his face more prominent and his hazel eyes appear even more intense. A deep cleft in his chin had Nathan wondering what it would be like to trace it with his tongue, which caused him to startle in shock. He hadn’t really had an interest in anyone since the accident, had never had an actual boyfriend or any experience at all, but to look at this man—a stranger—and have such lewd thoughts made him uncomfortable. Firm lips formed an answer he had to concentrate on hearing. “An album by Pink Floyd, actually. Wish You Were Here.”

Nathan’s breath caught. That was his favorite album. “Right this way,” he replied. Never had he been more aware of his slight limp than he was as he walked toward the rack holding the requested band’s CDs.

Flipping through the compact discs, he could feel the man’s eyes on him. “You seemed surprised by what I asked for,” the stranger mused.

Lifting his shoulder in a shrug, Nathan explained, “I’m usually good at guessing a person’s style of music. You didn’t strike me as someone interested in classic rock.”

A husky chuckle crashed over Nathan, sending him spiraling under a wave of desire. The hyperawareness racing through him made him nervous.

“Shouldn’t judge a book by its cover.”

Nathan reached the end of the section with a frown. “It seems we’re out of that particular CD.”

The man sighed and ran a hand through his hair in frustration, messing the neat style. Nathan thought that suited him better than the sleek look. “Seems all the stores I’ve been to have had the same problem.”

“Why not just download it?” Quinn called from the front counter. “Would be faster and easier.”

“Not much for downloading. I prefer the physical album.”

“I can special order it for you and call you when it comes in. Shouldn’t take more than two or three days.” Nathan lifted his gaze to the hazel eyes, which had darkened with an almost sad gleam. He had to blink when they seemed to change colors to an almost light green.

“That would be great. Someone broke into my truck a week ago and stole the CDs in my glove box.”

“Come over to the counter so I can take down some information,” Nathan told him. “I’ll put the order in this afternoon, and it should be here by Friday at the latest.”

“That’s perfect.”

Nathan pulled out the order book from behind the counter, noting the name of the album before asking, “What’s your name?”

“Erik Moore.”

Strong name, Nathan thought as he wrote it. “Phone number?”

A white rectangle appeared in front of him. Moore Construction appeared in the upper left corner of the business card, along with the man’s name and two phone numbers. The basic shape of a building under construction graced the right side of the card. Nathan’s eyes widened a tiny fraction. Moore Construction was one of the biggest and most successful construction companies around. Everyone knew who they were. Taking the card, his eyes strayed to the long, calloused fingers extending it. They were tanned with blunt fingernails. He briefly wondered how they’d feel against his skin, and he promptly berated himself for having such thoughts.

“Thank you, Mr. Moore,” he said by rote as he stapled the card into the book.

“Erik.”

“Huh?” Nathan looked up in confusion.

“It’s Erik. Mr. Moore sounds so stuffy.” Those fascinating eyes were twinkling with what he could only define as mischief.

“Erik,” he repeated hesitantly.