Chapter 4
Chapter four
I snap the last lid onto the butterscotch can and step back.
With its perfectly smooth walls and crisp corners, The Veterans Hall looks like it’s had a facelift.
Five evenings after work, plus the full weekend, and one Saturday, we’re finally finished.
Tanner is folding drop cloths into perfect squares, with his flannel sleeves rolled high, and sexy forearms flexing with each tug.
“We’re officially off the clock,” he announces, tossing the lid into the trash bag with a metallic clink. “Mrs. Helmsley can’t add another day to our sentence.”
I blow a curl off my forehead. “You sure? I was starting to enjoy the forced labor.”
You just enjoy bossing me around.” He grins, flashing a dimple.
“Well, someone has to keep you from painting the ceiling fan.” I tease, standing to brush the dust off my jeans. “I’m surprised we’re even finished with all the snacks you’ve been bringing. You know, bribery is a felony.”
He gestures to the cooler. “Last slice of pepperoni’s got your name on it.”
I start toward it, but he beats me there, and holds the pizza box over his head. “Not so fast. Payment first.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “State your price, Stone.”
“Dance with me at the gala tomorrow night.”
The whole town will be stuffed into that auditorium like sardines. Every naughty and nice lister is required to attend. Truth be told, I’ve been fantasizing about him twirling me under those twinkling lights all week. I bite my lip, fighting a smile. “What if I say no?”
“Then I eat your pizza and cry into the paint tray.” He lowers the box.
“But I’m hoping you’ll take pity on a reformed lawbreaker.
Besides, we have to go so we can be officially inducted into the hall of shame with silly hats, in front of nosy townspeople.
On second thought, maybe we should form a posse and skip town. ”
I pick up a slice of pizza, tear off a corner, and pop it in my mouth, chew and swallow. “Yes,” I say finally, in a soft voice. “I’ll absolutely dance with you.”
Relief and heat flash across his face. He sets the box aside and steps closer. “Good. Because I’ve got moves, McAllister. I’ll bet you do, too.”
“We’ll see.” The sound of my laugh echoes off the fresh walls.
We still have a few spots to cover, but we start cleaning some of the brushes and rollers in turpentine, while his playlist serenades us in the background with “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.”
The song feels as if we’re counting down to the end.
I’ve been looking forward to our nights together.
My drive over after work, the way possibilities jumble my brain whenever I see him, and the easy rhythm we fall into, with him cutting in edges, me rolling wide strokes, while trading playlists and stories.
But tonight, the job ends. Tomorrow we’re crowned and released.
I won’t have an excuse to see him every day. My chest aches at the thought.
I climb the ladder and reach for the last stubborn corner above the trophy case when the roller slips. A fat bead of butterscotch paint lets go and lands with a splat, right on the tip of my nose. I freeze mid-stretch and glance down.
Tanner’s already looking up with his paintbrush paused mid-stroke. “Well, what do we have here? Looks like the wall’s fighting back.”
I wrinkle my nose, trying to blow the drop away. It wobbles but clings. “Don’t you dare laugh.”
“Too late.” He sets his brush on the tray and climbs two rungs, closing the distance.
The ladder creaks under my boots; my heart does a little hop-skip.
He stops one step below me, eye-level now, close enough that I can see flecks of gold in his irises and the faint scar slicing through his eyebrow.
“Hold still, Picasso,” he murmurs. He lifts the hem of his flannel shirt, revealing a strip of toned stomach that definitely doesn’t help my concentration, and dabs gently at my nose.
The fabric is soft, warm from his body, and smells faintly of cedar and coffee.
His thumb follows, smoothing the last trace away.
“There,” he whispers tenderly with his finger still on my cheek. “Crisis averted.”
We’re only inches apart. His smoldering gaze drops to my mouth, then flicks back up. “You missed a spot,” I whisper, because apparently my brain has short-circuited.
He smiles, slow, crooked, devastatingly, and leans in.
Instead of kissing me though, he brushes his lips against the very tip of my nose, right where the paint was.
It’s feather-light, playful, but the contact sends a shower of sparks straight to my toes.
“Just double-checking my work,” he says against my skin.
I laugh, making the ladder wobble, and his hands fly to my hips to steady me.
“Easy, McAllister. Don’t want to add ‘concussion’ to the list.”
“Technically that would be your fault,” I manage.
“Worth it,” he says, and the way he’s looking at me, as if I’m the only thing on the planet that deserves to be painted, makes me believe him. I cautiously start to climb down and he slides his hands to the ladder rungs, guiding me until my boots touch the floor.
I turn to face him, backed against the ladder, and make no attempt to move.
The air between us hums with five days of pent-up almosts as he closes the distance between us.
There’s a single, seismic moment where the world seems to tip, and then his lips are brushing mine with a gentle kiss, testing the water, as if he’s not sure whether this is the place I want our story to go.
I answer by rising on my toes and pressing in, turning the kiss from tentative to meant-to-be.
The hard edge of the ladder bites into my spine, but I don’t care, I don’t care at all, because the feel of his mouth is so much softer than I expected, plush and careful, and at the same time so hot it’s making me dizzy.
Our mouths move together with the slow-building certainty that we’re both in this, that we’ve been in this for days now, maybe longer.
I feel every line of his body pressed against mine.
The solid warmth of his broad chest, the strength in his arms, the rise and fall of his breath as it mingles with mine.
The kiss deepens, tongue sliding against tongue, while my hands find the hem of his shirt to pull him closer, because I can’t get enough of him.
We’re both trembling, not with fear but with the force of the passion we’re unleashing, the repressed ache of five days, five years, five lifetimes. Whatever. I can’t think straight.
With my back still flush against the ladder, and legs like Jello, Tanner leans in harder, opening his lips with a hunger that surprises me, as if he’s only just now letting himself be honest about how badly he wants this.
Heat explodes low in my stomach. I make a small, needy sound that unravels him.
He cups my jaw, with his thumb stroking my neck, and kisses me like he’s been starving for it all week, which he has. Which I have.
“Ahem.” A voice comes from out of nowhere. “It appears you two are having a fine old time completing your task.”
We break apart in shock and turn to find Mrs. Helmsley and the five other women on the Mistletoe Gala board gawking at us holding clipboards. “We’re here to check your assignment and to approve its completion before tomorrow night’s ceremony.”
Tanner moves his hands to my waist and pulls me closer. “My work isn’t completed,” he says, stealing another kiss in front of them. “Tomorrow night, too naughty. You promised me a dance.”
“I’ll wear something … gala-appropriate.”
“Wear whatever. You’ll outshine the tree.”