Man.

Six-two if he was an inch, and all of it brilliantly packaged. As a dancer she appreciated a well-toned body. The specimen currently studying rows of miniature vehicles had his packed into snug and faded jeans, a flannel shirt and a denim jacket that was scarred and too light for the weather.

His work boots looked ancient and solid. Who would have thought work boots could be so sexy?

Then there was all that hair; dark, streaky blond masses of it waving around a lean, sharp-angled face. Not rugged, not classic, not anything she could label. His mouth was full, and appeared to be the only soft thing about him. His nose was long and straight, his chin, well, chiseled. And his eyes…

She couldn’t quite see his eyes, not the color, with all those wonderful lashes in the way. But they were heavy-lidded, so she imagined them a deep, slumberous blue.

She shifted her gaze to his hands as he reached for one of the toys. Big, wide-palmed, blunt-fingered. Strong.

Holy cow.

And while indulging in a moment’s fantasy—a perfectly harmless moment’s fantasy—she leaned and knocked over a small traffic jam of cars.

The resulting clatter slapped her out of her daydream, and turned the man’s eyes—his surprising and intense green eyes—in her direction.

“Oops,” she said. And grinning at him, laughing at herself, crouched down to pick up the cars. “I hope there were no casualties.”

“We’ve got an ambulance right here, if necessary.” He tapped the shiny red-and-white emergency vehicle, then hunkered down to help her.

“Thanks. If we can get these back before the cops get here, I may just get off with a warning.” He smelled as good as he looked, she decided. Wood shavings and man. She shifted, deliberately, and their knees bumped. “Come here often?”

“Yeah, actually.” He glanced up at her, took a good long look. She recognized the stirring of interest in his eyes. “Guys never outgrow their toys.”

“So I’ve heard. What do you like to play with?”

His eyebrows shot up. A man didn’t often come across a beautiful—provocative—woman in a toy store on a Wednesday afternoon. He very nearly stuttered, then did something he hadn’t done in years—spoke without thinking first.

“Depends on the game. What’s yours?”

She laughed, pushed back a tendril of hair that tickled her cheek. “Oh, I like all kinds of games—especially if I win.”

She started to rise, but he beat her to it, straightening those yard-long legs and holding out a hand. She gripped it, discovered to her pleasure it was as hard as she’d imagined, and as strong.

“Thanks again. I’m Kate.”

“Brody.” He offered the tiny blue convertible he was still holding. “In the market for a car?”

“No, not today. I’m more or less browsing, until I see what I want….” Her lips curved again, amused, flirtatious.

Brody had to order himself not to whistle out a breath. He’d had women come on to him from time to time, but never quite like this. And he’d been in a self-imposed female drought for… For what was beginning to seem entirely too long.