Cute Meet, Again

We know the hero and heroine of this book have been married before--so really the cute meet is hard to do. How do you make something old new again?

Nyiah—the dusky brunette from downstairs—was talking to a potential Mrs. Smith. Just the right height—maybe 5’4—and the right build, a pert ass and reach-to-Heaven legs. She wore a pair of heels that made her look vulnerable and kick-ass at the same time. Ass, legs, strategically placed clothing. This girl was intriguing.

She looked like a girl, a real girl, much more so than any of the other half-naked females in this room, and she did it without so much as removing a shoe. Her short blond hair was frayed into something that looked like she’d spent quite a bit of time making it look like she’d just climbed out of bed. And with her little sunflower halter sundress that looked like it was one string tug from falling off altogether, he was very much tempted to invite her to bed.

Of course, he was going to have to find out her name first.

He took another long drink of tequila, wobbling a bit, but not bad. He wasn’t really drunk. He never got too drunk. He’d always been able to hold his liquor.

Although he was curious how he suddenly found himself behind the little blond vixen. He was only just across the room—then again, the room was small. Maybe that’s how he got here so fast. He just didn’t remember such a short expanse.

She smelled like apricots.

Funny, apricots are what he always associated with….

“Eve!”

His perfect woman turned and Adam gaped down into the familiar lines of his ex-wife. But not his ex-wife. His ex-wife was wholesome, round, and had honey-brown hair. This woman was all sophisticated and sleek lines and bald. And blond. He’d loved Eve’s hair, the way it felt in his hands, the way is trailed down her back and tickled his thighs when she rode him.

The room spun upon that thought. Concentrate, old man.

Eve’s aqua-blue eyes widened between their thick lining of black stuff women put on their eyes to make them look bigger, which only made her look more fragile, more seductive. Why was she wearing makeup? She didn’t need makeup. She didn’t need to look anymore seductive. Her nostrils flared, and her gaze narrowed. “Are you drunk?”

He’d be the one asking the questions here.

“What the fuck happened to your hair?”

Then a funny thing happened. The room swirled so fast around him, it went black, and he didn’t remember Eve answering his question. Typical.

So be honest--he knows too much about her hair right? How does a guy-guy describe hair? 'Cause the guy I'm dating would possibly describe it this way, but he also painted his kitchen "terracotta"--so he could be a secret fan of Judy Garland too...