A quick note: Both my hero (Max) and my heroine (Abby) work at a living history museum, Colonial Williamstown. She works in the trades (not THAT trade–I mean the silversmith, saddler, etc.), while he portrays a Founding Father named Henry Culworth.

Without further ado: a snippet from Boy Meets Wench!

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The hottest man she’d ever seen knelt at her feet, ready to seduce her. His eyes were hot and heavy-lidded, his arms corded with muscle. The white t-shirt he wore stretched over those muscles. Its pristine brightness made his slight tan seem darker and brought out the vivid gold of his hair and blue of his eyes. The perfection of the image was blinding. Knee-weakening.

Good thing you’re already sitting down, she thought.

When he placed a hand on either side of her, gripping the chair’s arms with easy strength, that shirt lifted enough to reveal a sliver of his abs above his low-slung jeans. A line of dark gold hair bisected the ridiculously taut expanse, which pleased her. He wasn’t waxed as if he expected to be on display for an adoring female public. He wasn’t hairless and polished to perfection.

Instead, he looked like the culmination of every erotic dream she’d ever had, all combined into one spectacular man.

She, on the other hand, was wearing athletic socks, sneakers, baggy knit shorts, and full-coverage cotton panties that she’d bought in bulk last month. And she’d just remembered that her legs boasted considerably longer hair than she’d have preferred. Longer than what could reasonably be called stubble.

“I know you could French-braid my leg hair, but I wear a skirt down to the ankles every day.” She shifted in the chair, embarrassed and angry at herself for even caring about his opinion. “I didn’t expect you to come to my house tonight, and the Nasty Wenches don’t care whether I shave or not.”

His brow furrowed, and the seductive expression cracked a bit. She’d clearly thrown him off his game.

Great. If he was planning to ignore the angora sweater you’re growing on each leg, you’ve now made it impossible for him to do so. Nice work, Richards.

“Um…” He reached out a tentative hand and ran it up and down her lower leg. Slowly, as if testing the feel of the hair. “It’s soft.”

She didn’t know what to say to that.

He wasn’t done, though. “Softer than mine. Touching it is like…I don’t know.” His head tilted as he searched for the right comparison. “Like petting a cat with alopecia, maybe?”

She stared at him for a moment, dumbfounded. Then she doubled over in hysterical laughter, cackling so loud and hard that she started wheezing.

“A c-cat with—” She whooped and slapped the arm of her chair. “Oh, God. A-alo—”

Then she didn’t bother to try talking anymore, because it just wasn’t possible.

Even through her tears of mirth, she could see that he appeared startled. Maybe even a little offended by her reaction to his words. But eventually he started laughing too, his intensely blue eyes sparkling with amusement as those lines she loved radiated from their corners.

“You know,” he said between chuckles, “a few women have asked me if I go full colonial. I don’t respond, of course. But the honest answer is no. You, on the other hand…”

He shook his head, grinning at her. “That’s real commitment to historical accuracy. I may have to nominate you for some sort of award at the end of the year.”

To her shock, he leaned down and rubbed his cheek against one of her shins. The slight grain of his stubble abraded her skin in a way that fired her nerves. That began to rekindle the heat dampened by their mutual amusement.

“This is a new experience for me.” He ducked his head and did it again. “Now I have a better idea of what Henry Culworth saw and felt in his marriage bed each night. I think I like it.”

She bit her lip. “Is it a problem? Maybe we should forget all ab—”

Max squinted at her as if she’d said something particularly crazy. “Of course it’s not a problem.” That devastating grin peeked back out. “I like cats.”