Mitch held out a hand for Shep to sniff, then removed his jacket and offered it to Mindi.
“Oh no. No thanks,” she said, sliding her gaze to his full lips and chiseled chin.
He removed his Oakley’s and slid his gaze to her breasts. She should have been insulted, but she was too distracted by his delectable, dark cocoa-bean eyes.
“You sure?” His smile broadened, revealing straight white teeth that glistened like the Northern Star. Then he draped his jacket over her shoulders, slid on his Oakley’s, and sat beside her. Nikes on the bench in front, knees apart, forearms on thighs.
“Thank you,” Mindi said, half expecting an apology for the boob gaze. “I think.”
He laughed out loud, a deep, rich, infectious laugh.
Taken aback, Mindi turned toward the field, but as testosterone oozed from him and saturated her, she slid her gaze to his knees, up his muscular thighs, down his sturdy forearms, and to his big hands with long, thick fingers. Holy. Shit!
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Barefoot and Breathless 