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a little…astringent.”
    “Astringent?” Christian laughed, while Asher watched in slack-jawed admiration. In spite of herself, Ember had to agree; laughter on Christian was like gilding a lily. You didn’t think it could get any more perfect, but then… voila .
    Stunning.
    Asher regained his composure enough to offer a faint, “But still, Ian Fleming. Ian Fleming? ”
    “You can’t seriously think Ian Fleming was a better writer than Ernest Hemingway,” Ember cut in, siding with Asher, who smugly pointed a finger at her as if to say, See? Proof!
    Christian turned his attention to her and it felt as warm, focused, and bedazzling as a shaft of sunlight through clouds. He tilted his head and sent her a small, intimate smile that managed to bring a flush of blood to her cheeks and unsettle her in a way she definitely did not like. God, he was starting to get under her skin.
    He said, “I have three words for you, Ember.”
    Ignoring the traitorous little butterflies dancing in her stomach, she cocked a brow and waited.
    “Double. O. Seven.”
    The way he was looking at her—hot and half-lidded—was intimate, too, and she sternly reminded herself that this man was in all likelihood very, very practiced at giving women intimate looks.
    Remembering how he’d looked at her when he first came in the store yesterday, how his keen gaze had travelled over her plain clothes, her unkempt hair, she decided it was much safer having him look at her that way, than this new, disquieting, butterfly-stirring way.
    Time to remind him he couldn’t melt the panties of every woman on planet Earth, even if her stupid butterflies wished he would melt hers.
    In a light, mocking tone Ember said, “I hate to break it to you, but those are three numbers. ” She crossed her arms over her chest and looked him up and down. “All beauty and no brains, hmm? Well, it’s not exactly a shocker. With that face, you probably haven’t needed to think too much.”
    Seemingly not insulted at all, Christian drawled in a sensual purr, “Why, Miss Jones, was that a compliment? Did you just call me beautiful?”
    He knew her last name. He knew her real first name. What else did he know about her?
    Intrigued, in spite of the voice screaming in her head that she was an idiot, she replied a little too quickly, “Actually, I just called you dumb.”
    He smiled at her, lips twitching as if he might break out into laughter again, but the look Asher gave her was so horrified, so full of wide-eyed, open-mouthed disbelief, she couldn’t help but smile too. It was a big one, a real one, teeth and all, and it felt absolutely fantastic.
    And when he saw it, Christian did the strangest thing.
    He froze. His own smile faltered. His face contorted with a fleeting, unidentified emotion, before he looked away, jaw tight, and swallowed. He cleared his throat and murmured, “It seems you’ve got me pegged.”
    When he looked back at her, it was like watching a door slam shut. There was a coldness there, a new, flat hardness, which began in his eyes and went everywhere at once. It was even in his voice when he spoke again.
    “May I see them?” His flinty gaze dropped to the two paper-wrapped books she cradled in her arms.
    “Oh. Yes. Of course.”
    The voice in her head was satisfied with his new coldness. Unfortunately the stupid butterflies were not, and began to mope, drifting down to the pit of her belly where they lay heavy and silent, staring up at her with accusing eyes.
    Asher looked back and forth between the two of them several times, then politely excused himself and began to browse through a nearby shelf of mid-century cookbooks, picking out Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking . Considering he thought ordering takeout was the equivalent of cooking a meal, Ember realized he wasn’t really browsing. He was eavesdropping.
    Okay, Ember, pull yourself together! Be nice so you don’t lose the most important sale the store has seen in