Unpractised

2. Awkward

awkward
/ˈɔːkwəd/
adjective
causing difficulty; hard to do or deal with.

Tall, very tall. That's my first thought.

Standing at five feet seven, I like to consider myself tall, but seeing that man in front of me? I take it back.

The top of my head barely reaches below the bottom of his bearded chin and I can't help my eyes from slowly wandering upwards, taking in his surprisingly plump lips.

I might have gotten stuck there for a good second admiring his mouth, before snapping my eyes up to his.

And God his eyes, I can not.

He has amber eyes, it almost seems like they are moving, gold swirling around his irises, little specs of honey and chocolate splattered around. He has long black eyelashes, making me question if he uses eyelash oil or if he was just born gorgeous.

Probably the latter.

Ripping myself out of my staring haze, I try to somehow transform my awkward development of love for a stranger's eyelashes into a professional customer interaction.

I try, and fail, to make my voice sound unbothered as I greet: "Hello sir, how may I help you today?" I'm sure the smile on my face looks strained and he seems to notice. The corner of his mouth slightly tugs up and his eyes sparkle with amusement, before resuming their place in his stern face.

With the frown, he looks really intimidating and I try to sneakily take a step back, but I feel the box of books behind me digging into my calves, notifying me that I am stuck close to this mountain of a man without any escape.

He also notices my discomfort but apparently couldn't give less of a hoot about it, as he goes to answer my question.

The one that I had already forgotten because my mind was occupied with the long dark tendril of hair, that had just slipped out of his otherwise sleek, low bun.

The slight imperfection somehow makes him look more beautiful if that's even possible.

"I'm looking for a picture book." Short and direct I see, someone seems equally as delighted by sharing pleasantries with strangers as me. Normally at least, with him my stupid brain apparently wouldn't mind, just hearing his voice, I know it would definitely be worth it.

I desperately need to get my shit together and leave this poor man alone.

"Of course, there are books appropriate for kids of the age from one to four," I motion to the bookshelf, where I had just finished putting books, before continuing, "and then there" I now motion to the shelves behind him, "are the books for kids from five and up." He replies with a simple 'Mhm' reminding me a bit of the Witcher, the main character in one of my latest TV and book obsessions.

Despite my better judgment, I decide to ask, "Is this for your kid or a niece, maybe nephew?"

I bite back a chuckle at the mental image of him having a tea party with a little five-year-old, his head decorated with a tiara and his muscly body concealed in a sparkly, pink princess dress.

The picture quickly vanishes from my mind, as he replies with a gruff 'No'.

His voice is deep, and surprisingly rough as if he doesn't use it much.

Honestly from what little time I have spent in his presence, I wouldn't be too surprised if that were to be the case.

"Oh, okay." I reply, being painfully awkward.

I don't remember me ever being awkward, at least not to this extent, but with that grumpy, godly-looking man standing in front of me I don't think I am to blame here.