Chapter 3 #2
She blinks. “For the walls?”
“Unless you want me to paint you in polka dots, I’m flexible.” I wink, and get a real laugh from her, the kind of sound that could power this town through a blizzard.
“Solid,” she decides. “Something cozy and soothing, like … oatmeal? But not boring. With just a touch more yellow.”
“Butterscotch,” I explain, already prying open a gallon of the color I picked at dawn. “It’s a warm, rich tone. This will be a big improvement for these dingy walls,” I say, pouring the liquid into trays. “You roll and I’ll cut in.”
“Deal,” she says peeling off her coat. I almost spill the paint when I lock on to those insanely tempting curves, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about. Even in old jeans and a faded Alan Jackson t-shirt, she’s a goddess. I have to force myself to keep my eyes off her, and I almost manage.
We work in friendly silence at first, to the squishy sound of rollers, the soft thud of brushes, and the Christmas tunes drifting from the playlist on my phone. I steal glances at the way she bites her lip in concentration, and gives herself a little cheer when she nails a corner without a drip.
“You’ve done this before,” I say, edging along the baseboard with my brush.
“Dad was a perfectionist. Painting was cheaper than therapy.” She peeks at me over her shoulder. “You?”
“Built cabins and houses every summer in high school.” I don’t mention the buildings all belonged to my family, and we pretty much own the mountain that towers above town.
“My biceps thank me.” I tease, flexing with a paintbrush between my teeth pirate-style.
In the process, I splatter paint on her cheek.
She laughs so hard she nearly rolls over her own foot. “Show-off,” she accuses, but her gaze stays on me for a beat too long. Progress.
I reach to her without thinking, and wipe the paint off her cheek with my thumb. Her breath catches, and the air between us thickens to molten molasses. “Sorry,” I murmur, not sorry at all. My thumb lingers near her jaw. “Occupational hazard.”
She swallows. “No worries. I’ve got worse on my jeans.” Her voice is husky. She doesn’t step back, and I drop my hand before I do something stupid, like kiss paint off her pants. “Truce?” I offer instead. “First one to finish their section picks the next playlist.”
“You’re on.” She hurries back to her wall. I do the same, but I’m distracted by the way she’s wrapped her hair in a ponytail, exposing her beautiful neck. And I can’t stop listening to the way she sings along to “Jingle Bells” adorably off-key.
Half an hour later, she raises her roller. “Done! And no drips. Gotcha, Stone.”
I bow theatrically. “Your throne, Your Majesty. The playlist selection is yours, but might I suggest …” I scroll through my playlist and queue up a twangy version of “Baby, It’s Cold Outside.” The first notes float through the room, making her groan.
“So cheesy.” She laughs.
“Classic,” I correct, setting the phone on the table. “How about a dance break?”
“We’re supposed to be working.”
“But we’re ahead of schedule,” I remind her, and extend a hand, palm up. “Only for a minute. For morale.”
She eyes me, then the hand, then the half-painted wall. “Thirty seconds.”
“Sold.” I wrap a hand around her waist and pull her in before she changes her mind. She’s so soft, and smells edible, like vanilla pudding and something … uniquely her. We sway, not quite dancing, but she feels so good in my arms I tug her a little closer.
She curls her fingers against my shoulder. “You’re trouble,” she murmurs into my shirt.
“But so are you,” I echo, close to her ear. “With a capital T.”
She shivers, and I feel it everywhere. Unfortunately, the song ends too soon, but we don’t let go immediately.
Her eyes flick to my mouth, then away, tempting me to press my lips against hers and kiss her wildly.
Damn it. I’m entirely off my usual game with her, and I don’t want to risk pushing my luck.
I clear my throat in an attempt to reset my brain. “Back to work?”
“Uh-huh.” She sends me a small, secret smile.
Now, we’re working side by side, with our shoulders occasionally brushing. I “accidentally” bump her hip, and she retaliates by flicking paint at my sleeve. War is declared, and by noon we’re covered in speckles and laughing too much to care.
When she drags a ladder to her section and overreaches for a high spot, I hurry over to steady the ladder. “Careful,” I warn. “Don’t want to add ‘face plants off ladder’ to your naughty résumé.”
She turns, peering down at me with her roller, and dabs a dot of paint on my nose. “Will that get me on the naughty list next year?”
I retaliate by painting a stripe across her forearm. She gasps, mock-outraged, climbs down and grabs a brush from my tray. We chase each other around the room with paintbrushes and end up breathless, backed against the wall, with my hands bracketing her hips.
“Should we call a cease-fire?” she whispers, with her beautiful brown eyes lit up with excitement.
“Only if you insist.” I’m leaning in, gradually enough for her to stop me from getting closer, but she doesn’t. Just as I’m about to chuck this project out the window and throw caution to the wind, she shifts, and her expression changes, as if reality crashed the moment.
“We should …” she starts.
“Finish the first section,” I say in a ragged voice, doing my best to concentrate on something other than kissing her.
Throughout the rest of the afternoon, she catches me with a grin whenever I try to steal a glance. By three, all the imperfections in our section are hidden under a buttery warm fresh coat of paint. We stand back, with our hands on our hips, admiring our work. “Not bad for delinquents.”
She bumps my arm. “We make a good team.”
I turn, catching her hand. “Dinner? After we clean up. My treat. To celebrate our parole.” Her smile is slow, but tentative.
“I’m afraid I can’t. I promised my roommate I’d help decorate the tree.”
I’m disappointed, but not surprised a woman like Winter wouldn’t immediately melt for me, but I’m not worried, or giving up on her anytime within the next century. “I understand. Besides, we still have paintbrushes to clean, and another day in front of us.”
“Same time, same place, tomorrow?”