26. Tatum
26
TATUM
I shouldn’t feel like I’m sitting on pins and needles, but I do. Hell, pins and needles is an understatement. It’s more like spikes and daggers and one wrong move will wind up impaling me. Okay, yeah, it’s a little dramatic, but also…is it? I dyed his hair, then hid in his pantry where he proceeded to find me, pin me to the shelves, and lick me until I came against his mouth before asking me to do the dishes, which I broke out of principle.
Oops.
Okay, maybe I’m not being dramatic.
I haven’t seen Pax since the last time I was here. I’m still shocked he didn’t call my boss about the whole thing. Or maybe he did and she’s letting Pax fire me in person. It wouldn’t surprise me despite our little rendezvous in the pantry.
Wiping my sweaty palms against my T-shirt, I reach for the door handle when my phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s a text from Rory, so I open it.
Rory
Thought you might appreciate this.
A link to a news article shines back at me, making my brows pinch before I click on the tiny, granulated image. It only takes a second to load, and when it does, I cover my mouth to keep from cackling. Front and center is a photo of Paxton walking into a salon, the tips of his yellowish green hair on full display beneath a worn baseball hat.
Oh my hell, this is even better than I expected. Scrolling up, I read the title of the article. The Infamous Paxton Six is Known for His Laid-back Style, But Even His Rugged Good Looks Can’t Save Him From the Green Monstrosity Hidden Beneath his Sexy Baseball Hat.
Unable to help myself, I scroll back to the photo and take a screenshot for safekeeping. Tucking my phone back into my pocket, I open the front door. In the foyer, there’s a table and sitting on top of it is a box. Curious, I inch closer, ignoring my erratic heart rate. Like, seriously. Pick a speed, dammit. This slow and fast thing is making me dizzy. Or maybe it’s the envelope attached to the box glaring at me. My name is scrawled across the top in big, blocky handwriting. Who knew handwriting could be sexy? I drag my finger along the bold letters, slip my nail beneath the edge, and pull the note out.
Hey, Birthday Girl -
I’ll be a few minutes late. Had to run to my hairdresser after a strange mishap. Still not sure how green dye got into my shampoo, but it seems one of my employees has a vendetta against me. Because of this, I’ve decided it’s best if I run a tighter ship around here. Inside is your new uniform. And before you ask…yes. If Roman decides he ever wants to work for me, he’ll be required to wear the same attire.
Start in the bathrooms, yeah?
-Pax
AKA your boss.
Now, be a good girl and do as you’re told.
I tuck the note back inside the envelope, then set it beside the box, my curiosity getting the best of me. I should know better by now than to let it happen, but I can’t help myself. Pax should’ve fired me after the stunt I pulled. Yet, here I am, opening a box from the devil himself.
When I lift the top off, I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. It’s a black and white, frilly French maid outfit, complete with thigh-high stockings, a tiny white apron, and kitten heels.
Wow.
I pull the outfit from the box, examining the lacy fringe and low-cut top. Part of me wants to kill him. The other wants to slip it on just to drive the asshole crazy because I have no doubt I’ll look incredible in this.
I weigh my options, and my mouth lifts into a grin.
All right, Pax. You want to play? Well, buckle up, buddy.
He won’t know what hit him.
Okay, so maybe this was a bad idea. I unplug the vacuum in time to hear the stairs creak.
“Honey, I’m home,” Pax calls. “And it seems you forgot your?—”
He freezes on the top stair, his eyes flaring with heat. “What are you doing?”
“The outfit didn’t fit,” I lie. “Figured this was the next best thing.”
His eyes stay glued to my chest. “You’re topless.”
I look down at my boobs. “Am I?”
Scratching his jaw, the man doesn’t even bother trying to hide his interest as he moves closer. “Is this you getting back at me for the dishes thing?”
“No, breaking your dishes was getting back at you for the dishes thing.” I beam down at him. “This is me making my own rules.”
“Birthday Girl, if this is how you look making your own rules, I’ll play whatever game you want.”
It shouldn't be so enticing. The way he knows when to cave and when to stand his ground. When to push and when to give in. Hell, it makes me feel like a freaking yo-yo—again—but this time, I kind of like it. Honestly, I like it more than I care to admit.
“If you’ll excuse me.” I move past him, fisting the rag in my hand as I head into the music room. When he joins me, I keep my surprise locked down and head toward the guitars, wiping each of them and removing any fingerprints or dust that might’ve accumulated since last week.
Once I’m finished, I peek over my shoulder to find Pax reading The Count of Monte Cristo next to the window. The green dye from his hair is gone, covered with a sandy-blonde looking so damn natural, it’s not even fair. I wonder how much he had to pay to get the appointment so quickly. It’s not like he got the color from a walk-in salon. Nope, despite the man’s best intentions to wear his rockstar title proudly, he’s far from flashy. Honestly, I’ve rarely seen him in anything but a T-shirt and jeans, and not the expensive kind, either. The fact he likely had to pay a premium to a stylist because of me is the exact thing I need to get through today.
“Am I paying you to stare?” he asks without bothering to look up at me.
My annoyance flares, and I move closer. “Excuse me. I need to clean the window.”
“Clean away,” he encourages, his stupid eyes glued to the pages like I’m the least interesting thing in the world.
Aaaand there’s the yo-yo effect again.
Fine.
I lean closer, rising onto my tiptoes and squirting the glass with the cleaner before lifting my arm and wiping it away. When his breath hits my nipple, my lungs refuse to deflate, and I suck my lips between my teeth.
Focus, Tatum.
I continue cleaning, ignoring the heat of his breath against me and how close he is to my boobs until another gentle breeze hits my bare skin and my nipples peak.
Unable to help myself, I look down. Paxton’s sole focus is on my face. Not my chest. Not the unsteady rise and fall from my labored breathing. Nope. He’s looking at me. Analyzing me. Watching me to see if he affects me the same way I’ve clearly affected him.
“Is there…” I gulp. “Is there a problem, boss?”
“What size are you?”
“What?”
“Size,” he repeats. “Since apparently, I need to buy you a new uniform.”
A breath of amusement slips out of me, but I don’t back away. “What? You don’t like my solution?”
“I like it plenty, but on the off-chance my neighbors look in the window, or Roman decides to stop by, or the paparazzi decides to invest in a new lens, I’d like to keep this view to myself.”
His movements are slow and deliberate as he reaches up, brushing his finger against the tip of my nipple, and pulling another gasp from my lips. It doesn’t matter that he had his mouth on me the last time I was here. This is different. I can’t hide in the darkness. I can’t brush it aside or act like he doesn’t affect me the way I’m able to with every other guy I’ve been with. Actually, it’s not even a comparison because none of the others have pushed me the way Paxton does. It’s…annoying.
Stepping back, I put some much-needed distance between us. “This room’s clean. I’ll vacuum it at the end.”
I give him my back and make my way toward the hall, desperate to fucking breathe.
“I’m throwing a party next weekend,” he calls.
My heels dig into the ground, and I face him again. “What?”
“I said, I’m throwing a party next weekend.”
I shake my head, confused. “So?”
“I want you to come.”
The idea alone is laughable. I’m his maid. He’s my boss and a rockstar with more groupies than I’ve had orgasms, which is saying something. Okay, yeah, we’ve hooked up a few times, but it means nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart.
“No thank you,” I reply.
“Tatum,”—his gaze flicks over me as he walks toward me, covering what little distance I’d gained from seconds before—“I like this game as much as you do, all right? Walking into my house and seeing you like this?” He bites his bottom lip. “Fuck. You’re like a wet dream, but…I want you to come.”
“You’ve already made me come.”
“You know what I mean, Birthday Girl.”
My stupid heart flutters in my chest, and I breathe in deep, tasting his breath. Cinnamon, maybe? My mouth lifts for the briefest of seconds.
“What?” He frowns.
Snapping back to our conversation instead of the reminder of home, I say, “Nothing.”
“Pretty little liar,” he muses. “Tell me what made you smile.”
“Who said I smiled?”
“Not blind, Birthday Girl.”
No, he definitely isn’t. Honestly, I feel like his eyesight is a little too good, considering how much he picks up from my body language despite how well I try to hide it.
“Fine. Your breath smells like cinnamon.” I lift a shoulder. “My mom loves cinnamon.”
Understanding sparks in his gaze. “And you?”
Pretty sure he could taste like broccoli and I’d still crave him. But that’s the problem, isn’t it?
“Did you just vape or something?” I ask, trying to appear unaffected. “Is that where the smell comes from?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t vape.”
“Ah.” I nod. “I remember. You prefer the real thing, right?”
“Don’t smoke anymore, either,” he admits.
My brows pull. “What?”
“Promised a pretty girl on her birthday I’d quit,” he explains. “Haven’t had a cigarette since.”
Something twists in my chest, and for some reason I literally cannot explain, it almost makes me want to cry. Maybe it’s the time of year. Maybe I’m close to my period. But the idea of this…untouchable rockstar quitting something for a girl he never planned on seeing ever again threatens to make me want to melt. I used to justify it. My attraction to him. The way I couldn’t get him out of my head. Realizing the feeling was mutual during our years apart is…a hell of a lot more terrifying than I’d like to admit.
I need to get out of here.
As if he can taste my fight or flight instincts taking over, he pushes, “Come to the party.”
“Can’t. Sorry.”
“Why? Because you’ll be with your cowboy?”
My eyes fall to his lips, and I hate how fucking appealing they look. How tempting they are. “I think we both know this has nothing to do with Cowboy who went back to Georgia?—”
“Texas,” he corrects me.
“Texas,” I mutter, “so you can stop pretending you’re jealous.”
“Who says I’m pretending?”
I scoff. “You’re jealous?”
“Of Cowboy? No. Roman?” He hesitates, bringing his hand to touch my cheek, and for some insane reason, I let him. Liquid heat brands the side of my face as he runs his thumb back and forth across my cheekbone. “I wanted to strangle him, and he didn’t even touch you.”
“Plenty of men have touched me.”
“Come to the party,” he repeats.
So stubborn.
“Your stylist did a good job.” I lift my hand and brush his hair away from his face. “Although, I think I miss the green.”
He grabs my wrist, keeping my touch hostage as he pins me with his stare. “Come to the party.”
“Why? So I can clean up after everyone?”
“If it’ll get you here?—”
With a laugh, I gently tug out his grasp. “I’m good, thanks. But, uh, speaking of cleaning, I should probably get back to work.”
“Tate—”
“I’m a size six,” I add. “And a 34D. You know, for the maid outfit since you insist I put the ladies away.”
I give him my back and head down the stairs to the kitchen.