“What? Who?”

Skye looked at PJ as if she’d lost her mind and rolled her eyes. “Your tenant. Sebastian St. John. Who else?” She didn’t say it, but PJ could hear the implied “duh” at the end of that question.

Skye had turned back to look out the window and was practically drooling. “Oh, my god, that man is definitely eye candy!”

“Too bad his disposition isn’t as sweet,” PJ grumbled under her breath. But she still stood, draped in her garland, and crossed the room to stand beside Skye. Skye was right. Sebastian St. John seriously had it going on. She and Skye had been surreptitiously checking him out, okay, fine, ogling him, ever since PJ had rented him her empty apartment two weeks ago.

Just because PJ’s opinion of men was pretty low didn’t mean she didn’t still like to window shop. That probably made her as shallow as the men she’d just accused of thinking with their small brains. She gave a mental shrug. So call her a hypocrite. At least she wasn’t compelled to hit on every attractive man who crossed her path.

“Still being Mr. Non-communicative-grunting-Neanderthal?” Skye asked.

“And then some. Add cat-hating Scrooge with no sense of humor.”

They watched as St. John crossed the town square. The snow had stopped falling and they could see his powerful, hard-packed muscles bunching and flexing even though his jacket. He wasn’t wearing gloves, and he paused for a second in a pool of light under a streetlamp to blow into his cupped fingers.

His gaze roamed leisurely over the park and street before he stuffed his hands in the pockets of his black leather bomber jacket and continued across the street to the shop. He moved like some kind of prowling cat, all sleek, rippling muscle and sinewy strength.

PJ drew in a quick breath and let it out in a slow, silent whistle. She heard Skye breath out a quiet “Damn, he’s like walking sex.”

That Sebastian St. John was. Six feet two inches of denim-and-leather-clad walking sex. Early to mid thirties, dark spiky hair, laser blue eyes, straight nose, sculpted mouth with a slighter fuller lower lip and cheekbones a supermodel would kill for.

And if that wasn’t enough, he had perfect teeth, and his smile, when he chose to use it, which was rarely in her experience, was downright wicked sexy, complete with a dimple. That smile was guaranteed to melt a woman’s bones and make her think of twisting naked bodies and tumbled sheets. And it made PJ, who tended to view most men, especially men as good-looking as St. John, as lying, unfaithful pond scum, apply that unflattering opinion to her renter.

St. John had reached the walk leading up to the wide veranda skirting the store, and she and Skye scooted back from the window at the same time, not wanting to be caught staring stupidly like a couple of moon-eyed, star struck teenagers. It was a little late to worry about it now, though, backlit as they were by the store lights. For all they knew, St. John could have been watching them gawk at him since he’d started across the park.

PJ grabbed the other end of the garland hanging limply from Skye’s hand, and they turned in unison to hold it up to the bookshelves while sneaking peeks over their shoulders.

St. John was coming up the short walk, and PJ saw the glint of keys in the shaft of light falling over his shoulder from the streetlight as he pulled his right hand out of his pocket. The keys slipped out of his hand, and, with a curse, he turned, bending over to pick them up. Giving the two of them a perfect view of his tight, perfect tush. Damn, he was fine!

They watched in silence until he disappeared from sight up the three steps to the building. They heard his footfalls cross the veranda.

Beside her, Skye let out a breath in an audible whoosh and dropped her end of the garland to start fanning herself. “Do you need a cigarette as badly as I do?” she asked sotto voce.

It took PJ a second to come back to reality enough to register Skye’s innuendo. She blinked a couple of times and started to laugh. And then, there they were, the two of them, both slightly tipsy on spiced rum, giggling and snorting until tears rolled down their faces at their own idiotically juvenile behavior. Hushing each other only made it worse as they listened to St. John let himself into the front hall and climb the curving staircase to the second floor.

Skye sobered first, wiping her face. “Oh, god, I needed that. It’s been a rough week.”