Jerk.

If I thought going with Cameron McGregor to a grocery store was an education in the collective lust of women, going with him to a mall filled with holiday shoppers turns out to be an education in the collective lust of the entire human race.

Everyone stares at him. Everyone. Women, men, children, dogs. Heads swivel in his wake like weather vanes in the wind. Mouths hang open. People stop in their tracks and gape.

It’s so creepy that after a few hours of it I’m ready to jump out of my skin.

“God, how do you stand it?” I ask under my breath, edging closer to him as a pair of goggle-eyed women move nearer. They’ve been circling like vultures for the better part of twenty minutes, whispering to each other as they follow us from rack to rack in the dress department of Saks.

“Stand what?” asks Cam, browsing through the rack with an expert eye. Every once in a while he’ll pull something out, then put it back after a brief inspection and move on. Apparently he has a very specific idea of what he’s looking for.

“The ogling.” I nudge him with my elbow.

He looks up and sees the women. When he smiles at them, they freeze. Then they perform a hilarious about-face and dart away, giggling hysterically like a pair of silly teenage girls, though they’re obviously both over fifty.

“I hardly notice it anymore,” he says with a shrug, then withdraws a red dress from the rack with a little growl of pleasure. “This one.” He tosses it at me and keeps going.

I drape the dress over my arm and watch him continue his quest. “Seriously, though, it must get annoying! The amount of attention you get doesn’t bother you?”

“Comes with the territory, lass. This kind of rare, extraordinary beauty has a price.” He sends me a wink and I roll my eyes.

“God, I’m glad I’m not beautiful. I’d wind up a hermit if I had to deal with this every time I went out.”

I’m fingering the neckline of the dress over my arm when I bump right into Cam because he’s stopped moving. Startled, I look up into a pair of hazel eyes, intense and unblinking.

“The only reason you don’t have to deal with it is because you don’t notice it,” he says, his voice low. “And the only reason you don’t notice it is because you’ve mind fucked yourself into thinking you’re fat and plain.”

My lips part, but I’m too shocked to form a sentence. He takes my silence as permission to continue.

“Since we walked into this store, I’ve seen at least half a dozen men looking at you. Yes, you,” he repeats when I start to protest. “If you want an example of what I’m talkin’ about, look to your right. Three o’clock. Lad in the leather jacket with the red scarf. Look.”

He glances up, and I follow the direction of his gaze. Sure enough, there’s a guy across the aisle in a leather jacket with a red scarf looking right at me. He’s tall, with nice hair, and a nice face. He’s actually kind of cute.

When he sees us both looking at him, he glances away, cheeks ruddy. He turns and pretends to browse through a display of stacked sweaters.

“It must be you,” I say, astonished. “I’m getting some of your glow. Like the moon reflecting the sun’s rays. If the sun didn’t shine so brightly, the moon would just sit there in the night sky like a dead lump of rock.”

Cam’s sigh is aggrieved. “Bloody fucking hell,” he mutters, and storms over to another rack. I follow at a safe distance and watch with growing alarm as he tears through the rack, eyes black and lips thinned, his entire body bristling.

A young man in a suit with a gold name tag on his lapel stares at Cam with glowing heart eyes from a nearby register. When he sees me looking at him, he bites his lip and puts his hand to his throat, like Cowabunga, girlfriend, is that big, glorious beast yours?

I should introduce him to Cam. They’d make a lovely couple.

Smiling, I approach the Mountain and brave the storm brewing over his head. “What you’re failing to take away from my comment is the compliment I paid you.”

He glares at me from under lowered brows. “Don’t talk to me right now. I’m mad at you.” He savagely pulls a dress from the rack, rakes his black gaze over it, and tosses it in my general direction. I have to leap a few feet to catch it before it drops on the ground.

“Oh, okay,” I say, acting casual. As casual as one can be, standing on the slopes of an erupting volcano. “So it’s no biggie that I called you beautiful.”

He freezes, narrowing his eyes at me. “No, you didn’t.”

“Didn’t I?” I drift toward another rack. Cam follows on my heels like I knew he would, because there’s nothing more irresistible to his ego than a stroke down its back.

“When?” he demands, cutting me off as I reach for a sparkly silver jacket.

“Use that big brain of yours and think.” I move around him and admiringly fondle the sleeve of the jacket, then decide I’d look like a disco ball in it and let it go.

Cam moves in front of me again. “You said you were glad you weren’t beautiful. How is that a compliment to me?”

“Because it’s implied that you are.”

He purses his lips, looking at me askance. “No. A negative doesn’t count. You can’t prove a negative.”

It’s so obvious what he wants me to say, but I know if I come right out and tell him he’s beautiful, I’ll never hear the end of it. Also, the building could explode if his ego gets any larger, so I just shrug and drift away again.

Cam surprises me by taking my arm and gently pulling me into his chest. “So what you’re sayin’ is that you think I’m beautiful?”

I aim for a breezy, nonchalant tone that doesn’t give away the sudden thumping of my heart. “Well . . . you’re not entirely unfortunate looking.”

He’s serious and intent, gazing at me with laserlike focus, not a hint of a smile in his eyes or on his face. “It’s a yes-or-no question, Joellen. So—yes or no?”

Heat begins to creep up my neck. “You know exactly how you look, McGregor.”

“Beauty’s in the eye of the beholder, lass. I dunno how I look to you.”

The roughness of his voice surprises me, as does the intensity burning in his eyes. Has all my ribbing hurt his feelings?

I’m breathless with shame when I realize that all the times I’ve been sarcastic with him might have been taken at face value. Not everyone appreciates a sharp tongue, or that its owner is usually just a big scaredy-cat who uses sarcasm as a shield.

Oh my God. I’m such a dick. A spiteful, petty little dick who’s made a man feel bad about himself.

Looking into his eyes, I say quietly, “To me you look like a man everyone underestimates, objectifies, and misjudges because of his appearance. To me you look like a man who’s thoughtful, insightful, and kind, but hopes no one will notice because it will be mistaken for weakness. To me you look like a man who hides his pain behind smiles and buries it in women and tries everything he can to forget whatever’s hurting him but can’t because he’s got a soft heart that scars easily, but no one has ever looked close enough to see.”

A look of anguish crosses his face. His fingers curl into my arm. He swallows, hard, a muscle in his jaw flexing.

A sudden pop of noise and a flash of light make us both turn.

There’s a man with a camera standing across the aisle. It’s one of those cameras with the long lenses and the big flash box—the kind the paparazzi use.