The click of the door latch still echoed as she stared at her intruder, glared at her intruder, watched as he reached down and turned the lock on the door, looking her way all the while. Her gaze slid from his very large hand on the doorknob back to the face she saw every night in her dreams. She did her best not to sigh, to appear peeved rather than pleased, but it was hard when her tummy was tingling with blooming daffodil petals. One eye narrowed, she pointed with the sharp end of her pencil. "You, Tripp Shaughnessey, are a very bad man." "Ah, now, Glory, admit it. I'm not half as bad as you want me to be." He leaned his broad shoulders against the door, crossed his arms over his impressively buff chest, and grinned in that way he had. That way that made her want to take off all of her clothes, piece by piece in a slow sultry striptease—a thought that sent the daffodil tingles tickling in deep dark places that seemed these days to have Tripp's name written all over them. Returning her attention to the task at hand, she finished counting the gallon cans of black olives, marked her inventory sheet, then slipped the clipboard over the hook centered on the shelving unit's support rail.
