50 Shades of Davies – Chapter 2 Part 3
"Miss Carlin. What a pleasant surprise." Her gaze is unwavering and intense.
Holy Crap. What the hell is she doing here looking all gorgeous and sexy in her cream top, black skirt and thigh high designer boots? I think my mouth has popped open, and I can't locate my brain or my voice.
"Ms Davies," I whisper, because that's all I can manage. There's a ghost of a smile on her lips and her eyes are alight with humour, as if she's enjoying some private joke.
"I was in the area," she says by way of explanation. "I need to stock up on a few things. It's a pleasure to see you again, Miss Carlin." Her voice is warm and husky like dark melted chocolate fudge caramel…or something.
I shake my head to gather my wits. My heart is pounding a frantic tattoo, and for some reason I'm blushing furiously under her steady scrutiny. I am utterly thrown by the sight of her standing before me. My memories of her did not do her justice. She's not merely gorgeous – she's the epitome of female beauty, breathtaking and she's here. Here in Clayton's Hardware Store. Go figure. Finally my cognitive functions are restored and reconnected with the rest of my body.
"Spencer. My name's Spencer," I mutter. "What can I help you with, Ms Davies?"
She smiles, and again it's like she's privy to some big secret. It is so disconcerting. Taking a deep breath, I put on my professional I've-worked-in-this-shop-for-years façade. I can do this.
"There are a few items I need. To start with, I'd like some cable ties," she murmurs, her brown eyes cool but amused.
Cable ties?
"We stock various lengths. Shall I show you?" I mutter my voice soft and wavering. Get a grip, Carlin. A slight frown mars Davies's rather lovely brow.
"Please. Lead the way, Miss Carlin," She says. I try for nonchalance as I come out from behind the counter, but really I'm concentrating hard on not falling over my own feet – my legs are suddenly the consistency of Jell-O. I'm so glad I decided to wear my best jeans this morning.
"They're in with the electrical goods, aisle eight." My voice is a little too bright. I glance up at her and regret it almost immediately. Damn, she's gorgeous. I blush.
"After you," she murmurs, gesturing with her beautifully manicured hand.
With my heart almost strangling me – because it's in my throat trying to escape from my mouth – I head down one of the aisles to the electrical section. Why is she in San Francisco? Why is she here in Clayton's? And from a very tiny, underused part of my brain - probably located at the base of my medulla oblongata where my subconscious dwells – comes the thought: She's here to see you. No Way! I dismiss it immediately. Why would this beautiful, powerful, urbane woman want to see me? The idea is preposterous, and I kick it out of my head.
"Are you in San Fran on business?" I ask, and my voice is too high, like I've got my finger trapped in a door or something. Damn! Try to be cool, Spencer!
"I was visiting the SFU farming division. It's based at the campus. I'm currently funding some research there in crop rotation and soil science," she says matter-of-factly. See? Not here to find you at all, my subconscious sneers at me, loud, proud and pouty. I flush at my foolish wayward thoughts.
"All part of your feed-the-world plan?" I tease.
"Something like that." She acknowledges, and her lips quirk up in a half smile.
She gazes at the selection of cable ties we stock at Clayton's. What on Earth is she going to do with those? I cannot picture her as a do-it-yourselfer at all. Her fingers trail seductively across the various packages displayed, and for some inexplicable reason, I have to look away. She bends and selects a packet.
"These will do," she said with her oh-so-secret smile, and I blush.
"Is there anything else?"
"I'd like some masking tape."
Masking tape? "Are you redecorating?" The words are out before I can stop them. Surely he hires labourers or has staff to help him decorate?
"No, not redecorating," she says quickly then smirks, and I have the uncanny feeling that she's laughing at me.
Am I that funny? Funny looking?
"This way," I murmur embarrassed. "Masking tape is in the decorating aisle." I glance behind me as she follows.
"Have you worked here long?" Her voice is low, and she's gazing at me, brown eyes concentrating hard. I blush even more brightly. Why the hell does she have this effect on? I feel like I'm fourteen years old – gauche, as always, and out of place. Eyes front, Carlin!
"Four years," I mutter as we reach our goal. To distract myself, I reach down and select the two widths of masking tape that we stock.
"I'll take that one," Davies says softly pointing to the wider tape, which I pass to her. Our fingers brush very briefly, and the current is there again, zapping through me like I've touched an exposed wired. I gasp involuntarily as I feel it, all the way down to somewhere dark and unexplored, deep in my belly. Desperately, I scrabble around for my equilibrium.
"Anything else?" My voice is husky and breathy. Her eyes widen slightly.
"Some rope, I think." Her voice mirrors mine, husky.
"This way" I duck my head down to hide my recurring blush and head for the aisle.
"What sort were you after? We have synthetic and natural filament rope… twine… cable cord…" I halt at her expression, her eyes darkening. Holy cow.
"I'll take five yards of the natural filament rope, please."
Quickly, with trembling fingers, I measure out five yards against the fixed ruler, aware that her hot dark gaze is on me. I dare not look at her. Jeez, could I feel any more self-conscious? Taking my Stanley knife from my back pocket of my jeans, I cut it then coil it neatly before tying it in a slipknot. By some miracle, I manage not to remove a finger with my knife.
"Were you a Girl Scout?" she asks, sculptured, sensual lips curled in amusement. Don't look at her mouth!
"Organized, group activities aren't really my thing, Miss Davies."
She arches a brow.
"What is your thing, Spencer?" she asks her voice soft and her secret smile is back. I gaze at her unable to express myself. I'm on shifting tectonic plates. Try and be cool, Spence, my tortured subconscious begs on bended knee.
"Book," I whisper, but inside, my subconscious is screaming: You! You are my thing! I slap it down instantly, mortified that my psyche is having ideas above its station.
"What king of books?" She cocks her head to one side. Why is she so interested?
"Oh, you know, the usual, the classics. British literature, mainly."
She rubs her chin with her polished index finger and thumb as she contemplates my answer. Or perhaps she's just very bored and trying to hide it.
"Anything else you need?" I have to get off this subject – those fingers on that face are so beguiling.
"I don't know. What else would you recommend?
What would I recommend? I don't even know what you're doing?
"For a do-it-yourselfer?" She nods, brown eyes alive with wicked humour. I flush, and my eyes stray of their own accord to her short skirt.
"Coveralls," I reply, and I know I'm no longer screening what's coming out of my mouth.
She raises an eyebrow, amused, yet again.
"You wouldn't want to ruin your clothing," I gesture vaguely in the direction of her skirt.
"I could always take them off." She smirks.
"Um." I feel the colour in my cheeks rising again. I must be the colour of the communist manifesto. Stop talking. Stop talking NOW.
"I'll take some coveralls. Heaven forbid I should ruin any clothing." She says dryly.
I try and dismiss the unwelcome image of her without jeans.
"Do you need anything else?" I squeak as I hand her the blue coveralls.
She ignored my inquiry.
"How's the article coming along?"
She's finally asked me a normal question, away from all the innuendo and the confusing double talk… a question I can answer. I grasp it tightly with two hands as if it was a life raft, and I go for honesty.
"I'm not writing it, Madison is. Miss Duarte. My roommate, she's the writer. She's very happy with it. She's the editor of the magazine, and she was devastated that she couldn't do the interview in person." I feel like I've come up for air – at last a normal topic of conversation. "Her only concern is that she doesn't have any original photographs of you."
Davies raises an eyebrow.
"What sort of photographs does she want?"
Okay. I hadn't factored in this response. I shake my head, because I just don't know.
"Well, I'm around. Tomorrow, perhaps…" she trails off.
"You'd be willing to attend a photo shoot?" My voice is squeaky again. Maddy will be in seventh heaving if I can pull this off. And you might see her again tomorrow, that dark place at the base of my brain whispers seductively at me. I dismiss the thought – of all the silly, ridiculous…
"Maddy will be delighted – if we can find a photographer." I'm so pleased, I smile at her broadly. Her lips part, like she's taking a sharp intake of breath, and she blinks. For a fraction of a second, she looks lost somehow, and the Earth shifts slightly on its axis, the tectonic plates sliding into a new position.
Oh my. Ashley Davies' lost look.
"Let me know about tomorrow." Reaching into her handbag, she pulls out her purse. "My Card. It has my cell number on it. You'll need to call before ten in the morning."
"Okay." I grin up at her. Maddy is going to be thrilled.
"SPENCER!"
Paul has materialised at the other end of the aisle. He's Mr. Clayton's youngest brother. I'd heard he was home from Princeton, but I wasn't expecting to see him today.
"Er, excuse me for a moment, Ms Davies." Davies frowns as I turn away from her.
Paul has always been a buddy, and in this strange moment that I'm having with the rich, powerful, awesomely off-the-scale attractive control freak Davies, it's great to talk to someone who's normal. Paul hugs me hard, taking me by surprise.
"Spence, hi, it's so good to see you!" she gushes.
"Hello, Paul, how are you? You home for your brother's birthday?"
"Yep. You're looking well, Spence, really well." He grins, as he examines me at arm's length. The he releases me but keeps a possessive arm draped over my shoulder. I shuffle from foot to foot, embarrassed. It's good to see Paul, but he's always been over-familiar.
When I glance up at Ashley Davies, she's watching us like a hawk, her brown eyes hooded and speculative, her mouth a hard impassive line. She's changed from the weirdly attentive customer to someone else – someone cold and distant.
"Paul, I'm with a customer. Someone you should me," I say, trying to defuse the antagonism I see in Davies's eyes. I drag Paul over to meet her, and they weigh each other up. The atmosphere is suddenly arctic.
"Er, Paul, this is Ashley Davies. Ms Davies, this is Paul Clayton. His brother owns the place." And for some irrational reason, I feel I have to explain a bit more.
"I've know Paul ever since I've worked here, though we don't see each other that often. He's back from Princeton where's he's studying business administration." I'm babbling…Stop, Now!
"Mr. Clayton." Ashley holds her hand out, her look unreadable.
"Ms. Davies," Paul returns her handshake. "Wait up – not the Ashley Davies? of Davies Enterprises Holding?" Paul goes from surly to awestruck in less than a nanosecond. Davies gives him a polite smile that doesn't reach her eyes.
"Wow – is there anything I can get you?"
"Spencer has it covered, Mr Clayton. She's been very attentive." Her expression is impassive, but her words…. Its like she's saying something else entirely. It's baffling.
"Cool," Paul responds. "Catch you later, Spence."
"Sure, Paul" I watch him disappear toward the stock room. "Anything else, Ms Davies?"
"Just these items." Her tone is clipped and cool. Damn… have I offended her? Taking a deep breath, I turn and head for the till. What is her problem?
I ring up the rope, coveralls, masking tape, and cable ties at the till.
"That will be forty-three dollars, please." I glance up at Davies, I wish I hadn't. She's watching me closely, her dark eyes intense and smoky. It's unnerving.
"Would you like a bag?" I ask as I take her credit card.
"Please, Spencer." Her tongue caresses my name, and my heart once again is frantic. I can hardly breathe. Hurriedly, I place her purchases in a plastic carrier.
"You'll call me if you want me to do the photo shoot?" She's all business once more. I nod, rendered speechless yet again, and hand back her credit card.
"Good. Until tomorrow, perhaps." She turns to leave, then pauses. "Oh – and Spencer, I'm glad Miss Duarte couldn't do the interview." She smiles, then strides with renewed purpose out of the store, slinging the plastic bag over her shoulder, leaving me a quivering mass of raging female hormones. I spend several minutes staring at the closed door through which she's just left before I return to planet Earth.
Okay – I like her. There, I've admitted it to myself. I cannot hide from my feeling anymore. I've never felt like this before. I find her attractive, very attractive. But it's a lost cause, I know, and I sigh with bittersweet regret. It was just a coincidence, her coming here. But still, I can admire her from afar, surely? No harm can come of that. And if I find a photographer, I can do some serious admiring tomorrow. I bite my lip in anticipation and find myself grinning like a schoolgirl. I need to phone Maddy and organise a photo shoot.