Can't Fight This Feeling Read Online Free Page A

his hair as he talked to Glory, a gesture she’d seen him make a dozen times. It always made her curious, that habitual movement, because his hair was shorn short enough that it never appeared disordered. The stuff was brown, but tipped in gold, highlights that a woman would pay a mint for in a salon, but that only needed his constant exposure to the sun.
    Then there were those intriguing scars that only served to make him more sexy. More male.
    Still ogling, Angelica tuned into what Glory was now saying. “That’s right. I know those clippers are in from the sharpener’s. They’re in the back room somewhere. Hold on a second and I’ll find them.”
    Angelica had to bite her lip to stop from volunteering for the task. Not only could she put her hands on them immediately—she’d designated a space in the storeroom for items delivered from the man who did the work—but Glory was hopeless when let loose in that area. She moved perfectly ordered items around, reshuffled organized paperwork and generally made a mess.
    As Brett waited, the bell sounded again, signifying another customer.
    Argh! Usually, with Glory occupied elsewhere, she’d be hurrying forward to help the person. But that would give her away to Brett, and she really wasn’t up to a second confrontation with him in two days.
    She was too busy to deal with her ridiculous response to him.
    He murmured something, greeting the newcomer, she supposed. A local, she guessed, since the hardware store was hardly the midweek hot spot for the town’s wealthy visitors. Drumming her fingers on the skirt of the sturdy, butcher-style apron she wore over her clothes, she wondered how long she could let the latest customer go without service.
    Already, her conscience was pinching at her. Then it got worse. “Where’s Angel?” an elderly man enquired.
    “Angel?” Brett repeated. “You mean Glory?”
    He’d make that assumption, Angelica thought, because he didn’t know the name that Mr. Bowman used for her.
C’mon, Glory.
She sent out vibes toward the back room.
Get out here with Brett’s tool!
    With him safely on his way, she could help the customer asking for her.
    “No,” Mr. Bowman said. “Angel. That dark-haired girl who works here. She’s my color muse.”
    The dear
, Angelica thought. One of her favorite parts of the job was keeping the display of paint chips organized. She loved playing with the colors and imagining them on walls, on furniture, covering the trim outside a house. Mr. Bowman had found her there one day and she’d helped him pick choices to freshen the interior of his home.
    “Bob...” Brett cleared his throat. “I really don’t think there’s any Angel—”
    “Of course there is. This is one of the days she works.” His voice rose. “Angel? Angel!”
    The jig’s up, girl
, she told herself, squaring her shoulders. “I’m here, Mr. Bowman. Do you want to meet in the paint section?”
    “Certainly,” the old man called back.
    Angelica let out a breath. Maybe, while she was busy with Mr. Bowman, Brett would collect his tool and carry on his day. They’d never have to come face-to-face.
    She gave all her attention to the older gentleman, who loved the shade they’d picked for his office and now wanted something to brighten the kitchen. They picked several tagboard swatches that he would bring home for his wife’s ultimate approval. Before he went on his way, she kissed his cheek and he beamed at her. Then he wandered toward the front door.
    Angelica, breathing easy, turned in the direction of the lightbulb shelves. Her face almost mashed into Brett’s plaid shirt as he came around a corner. She skittered back.
    His gaze ran over her, from her jeans and low-heeled boots, to the apron covering her long-sleeved tee. She’d written her name in block letters on the beige twill in blue permanent marker. It was situated in the vicinity of her collarbone, so there was no reason for her breasts to respond as if he was staring at