Chapter 7
7
I sobel Carolina Jakes came into the world at three-twelve in the afternoon, in the back seat of the car taking her mother to the hospital. She was born into her father’s hands while he wept tears of unashamed joy, and when he’d passed her safely into her mother’s arms, fainted dead away.
“Did you get it all?” Brynn asked when she’d stopped laughing.
“Every second,” Angela said. “He managed to do it just as we pulled up to emergency, so when the guy with the gurney opened the door, he flopped right out onto it. And since I managed to keep Kara’s vagina out of the shot, the whole thing is usable.”
“Are you going to use it?”
“Oh, Tommy already posted it. The man is impossible to humiliate.”
“And Kara? How is she?”
“A little shellshocked, I think, since she went from zero to baby in less than an hour. But she’s good. They’re keeping both of them in the hospital overnight just to be safe, but they’ll probably come home tomorrow.”
“That’s great. Oh, I sent you the footage from the arena earlier.”
“How’s it look?”
“Hilarious,” Brynn recalled with a chuckle, then sighed. “And sweet.”
“Hilarious and sweet is pretty much Tommy’s brand. I’ll look at it later. Right now I’m rescheduling everything on his calendar, which is why I called. I could use a favor.”
“Sure. What do you need?”
Five minutes later when Jude walked in the front door, Brynn was still taking notes. “Okay, I’ll call them first thing in the morning. Tell Kara hello from me, and congratulations. Tommy too. If you need anything else—okay. Okay, talk to you soon. Bye.”
She hung up the phone and turned to Jude, who was watching something on his phone and laughing so hard he was leaning on the couch to keep from sliding to the floor. Tilly, wanting to get in on the joy, was dancing in place at his feet. “What’s so funny?”
“This video of Tommy,” Jude managed, and turned the phone so Brynn could see Tommy flop backwards out of the door of an SUV and onto a gurney, unconscious, still in his practice gear.
“Uh-huh,” Brynn said, more amused by Jude’s reaction than Tommy’s faint. “Listen, do you have a minute? I need to talk to you about something.”
“Sure.” Still laughing, he circled the couch and sat down. “Hey, Tilly girl. How’s it going?”
Brynn tried not to be charmed by the way he cooed to the dog, putting the phone down to rub her ears with both hands. It was pointless, but she tried, just so she could say she had.
Still petting the dog, he looked up. His hair had fallen over his forehead, half shielding his eyes, a good thing because the impact of that bright blue gaze was heady enough. “What’s up?”
Putting her lustful thoughts aside—a true act of professionalism if there ever was one—she sat down and worked up a smile. “Do you have any plans for this weekend?”
Tilly, annoyed that he was now splitting his attention, went up on her hind legs and barked. He patted her on the head, but his eyes never left Brynn’s. “Why?”
“Angela called,” she began, and he straightened, alarm tightening his features.
“Is everything okay? The baby?”
“Everything’s fine,” she assured him, and he sagged with relief. “It’s about Tommy’s schedule. He didn’t have much on it, because he was keeping it light, but there are a few things she has to shuffle. She wanted to know if you’d be willing to step in for him on one or two of them.”
“Oh.” He scraped a hand through his hair. “Okay, sure. What are they?”
“Well, there’s only one.” She glanced down at the small notepad she held, though she didn’t need to refresh her memory. “Throwing out the first pitch at the Tiger’s game on Saturday.”
He stared for so long that she started to wonder if he’d heard her—even Tilly’s whining for attention didn’t get a reaction. Finally, he said, “You’re fucking kidding me.”
She kept her expression neutral, but it was tough. “No. It’s a day game, so the first pitch is scheduled for one-fifteen. We’ll have to be there early, of course?—”
“We?” he interrupted.
“—and while you don’t have to stay for the whole game,” she continued, refusing to dignify the unspoken you think you’re coming with me? question with a response, “it would be a bad look not to.”
He was still staring at her, and starting to look really annoyed, so she decided to get the rest of it out before he found his voice again. “We can either sit in the stands between the away dugout and home plate, or in one of the boxes. I think we should sit in the stands. The boxes are more comfortable—they’re air conditioned and have better food—but you’ll have better visibility in the stands, and the whole point is for people to see you.”
“They’re going to see me make an ass of myself,” he muttered.
“I’m sorry?” she said, pretending she hadn’t heard.
“Nothing. Not a damn thing.”
She bit her lip to contain her smile. “I’ll have more details when I call their PR office in the morning—what time we have to be there, what they want you to wear, that kind of thing.”
“Of course, they’re going to tell me what to wear.” On an oath, he let his head fall back against the couch. “God, I hate PR.”
“You can wear what you want,” Brynn reminded him. “But some team gear would be a good idea.”
“Mine or theirs?”
“Preferably yours,” she said. “But you could slap on a Tiger’s hat for good luck.”
“What’re you going to wear?”
“Oh, I’ll have my fielder’s cap. Maybe my dad’s Sparky Anderson jersey, if I can find it.” She frowned. “I think it’s still in storage, though.”
“Who’s Sparky Anderson?”
She just sighed. “You know, you say stuff like that in this town, and your hotness factor just drops.”
He blinked, then a slow, cocky grin spread across his face. “My hotness factor?”
Oh, hell . “And if your pitch sucks,” she said, trying to pretend her cheeks weren’t on fire, “it’ll drop out of existence.”
He winced but recovered quickly. “I’m a professional athlete. I can throw a ball.”
“Good,” she said cheerfully. “Then everything will be fine.”
Thursday morning, Jude stood in the back hallway of the gym with two brand new mitts, a baseball and a confused trainer.
“I thought I was supposed to be getting you ready for hockey season,” Mac said, frowning at the mitt in his hand. “Why am I playing catcher?”
“Because I have to practice, and you’re my only option,” Jude said.
“Don’t you have friends?”
“They’re busy.”
“ I’m busy,” Mac protested.
“Yeah, training me.”
“For hockey, ” Mac reminded him. “You’ve got an assistant, don’t you? The cute blonde with the pink streaks in her hair. Can’t you get her to do this?”
“No.”
“Why not? Oh.” Realization dawned on Mac’s face, and he grinned. “You don’t want to look like an ass in front of her, huh?”
Jude sighed. “Would you just give me the ball and go to the end of the hall already?”
“Fine.” Mac slapped it into his hand and started walking.
“That’s far enough,” Jude called.
“No, it’s not,” Mac called back, still walking. “The distance from the pitcher’s mound to the plate in Major League Baseball is sixty-feet, six inches.”
“Oh. Is that far enough?”
“Almost.”
By the time Mac stopped, Jude had begun to panic. “That looks farther than sixty-feet.”
“It’s close enough.” Mac shoved his hand into the mitt and flexed it. “Why did you get me a first baseman’s mitt?”
“There are different kinds of mitts?”
Even at this distance, Jude could see Mac roll his eyes. “Does your assistant like baseball?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“No reason.” He dropped into a squat and held the mitt up. “Okay, let’s see what you got.”
Jude took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, then did what he’d seen pitchers do in the approximately seven hours of YouTube videos he’d watched the night before. He brought the ball and glove to his chest, kicked his front leg up and out, and flung his arm forward with all his might, letting go of the ball when he thought he should.
He knew right away something had gone wrong. First, he was so far off balance that he had to take two running steps to keep from falling on his face and nearly ended up smacking face-first into the wall. The ball did hit the wall, then rolled across the floor to carom off the opposite wall before rolling to a stop about three feet in front of Mac.
He stared at it for a full five seconds, then looked up at Jude. “What the fuck was that?”
“Isn’t that what pitchers do?” Jude asked.
“No,” Mac said, coming out of his crouch. He picked up the ball and walked to Jude. “Exactly no pitchers do that, and neither should you. Have you ever thrown a ball before in your life?”
“Yes,” Jude said, offended. “I’ve just never pitched before.”
“Well, you’re not pitching now, either,” Mac told him.
“I thought I was.”
“No. God, no. You’re throwing, not pitching.”
Jude frowned. “What’s the difference?”
“Too nuanced to explain right now. Just trust me.” Mac slapped the ball back in Jude’s hand. “Try again, and this time, just throw it. No leg kick, no wind-up. Just throw.”
“But—”
“ Just…throw ,” Mac repeated.
“Fine.” With ill grace, Jude waited for Mac to take his place at the end of the hall again. When he was crouched, mitt at the ready, he pulled his arm back and threw.
The ball sailed high, bringing Mac up out of his crouch to catch it, and Jude threw his mitt down in disgust. “Shit.”
“No, that was good distance, and it was over the plate. We can work with that.” He started to throw the ball back, saw Jude wasn’t wearing his glove, and jogged over to put it in his hand. “Again.”
For the next two days, Brynn didn’t see much of Jude. He went to his workouts in the mornings, had informal on-ice practices in the afternoons, and the evenings…well, she didn’t know where he went but it wasn’t here. She told herself it was fine, that the distance was healthy, and it wasn’t as though she didn’t have anything to keep her busy. There was video editing to do, of the footage from the gym and the scrimmage, social media posts to schedule, and the cleaning service started on Thursday.
She had her own work to do, too. Her back pay had hit her account, so she caught up on bills, dumped the rest into a newly opened savings account, and worked up a monthly budget based on how much the rent would be at the apartments she’d looked at.
And in between work and personal stuff, she fretted about just where her relationship with Jude was going. Or if they had a relationship at all.
She had no doubt that he wanted her. Happy Pants had been observed, after all, and then there was that wink he’d given her at the rink Wednesday afternoon. Correction, she thought—the wink and the eye-fuck. She’d thought it was for the camera—had told herself it was for the camera—but when she’d been editing it had been clear that he’d been looking at her.
But of course he’d been going out onto the ice so the moment had passed—literally, walked right past her—and then Kara had gone into labor and had the baby and Angela had called to ask if Jude could take over the first pitch gig and just like that, she was back in assistant mode.
She was beginning to see why people who worked together shouldn’t get romantically involved. And the more time that went by after the Happy Pants and Eye-Fuck incidents, as she thought of them, the more she thought she might have exaggerated their significance.
So, the man’s dick had gotten hard. So what? Getting hard is what dicks do, it doesn’t mean anything. And the eye fuck? She’d told him she’d wanted juice for his social media accounts, urged him to play it up for the audience, so that’s what he’d done.
“Don’t you think?” she asked Amy.
“Don’t I think what?” Amy mumbled, sounding half asleep.
“That he was just playing along,” Brynn said, carefully lining her eyes.
“I have no idea,” Amy said. “It’s too early to think.”
“It’s eleven o’clock,” Brynn pointed out.
“On Saturday,” Amy countered. “Eleven o’clock is early on a Saturday. Especially when you were up until three-thirty.”
“Hot date?”
“I wish,” Amy said over the rustle of blankets. “Thesis.”
“Again?”
“Again, still, always. Forever.”
Brynn frowned. Amy sounded even more fatalistic than usual. “You okay?”
“Absolutely not. Now, what about Jude?”
“Never mind, it’s not important. Go back to sleep.”
“Believe me, I’m going to. But before I do, I have one final piece of advice for you regarding Jude Bessonette.”
Brynn leaned into the mirror to feather her liner at the corners. “Oh, I can’t wait.”
“Fuck his brains out.”
Brynn fumbled the eyeliner, almost stabbing herself in the eyeball before it clattered to the floor. “Excuse me?”
“Ride that mustache till you come screaming, fuck him dry. And when he’s a shriveled, dried up husk of a man, pour a glass of water down his throat and do it all over again.”
Brynn bent to pick up the eyeliner. “What happened to ‘this is a terrible idea, you’ll lose your job’?”
“Fuck that shit. You’re only young once, and there are other jobs.”
“I’m very confused,” Brynn confessed. “Did you get hit on the head?”
“No, I spent my Friday night—the fourth one in a row—at home, working instead of being out somewhere, with someone who finds me attractive, doing something fun. And around 2:45 a.m. it hit me—why? For what? So I can finish my Ph.D.? Who cares?”
“Um, I thought you did?” Brynn ventured.
“So did I,” Amy said. “But why? So I can get a better teaching job?”
Brynn wasn’t sure what to say, but it didn’t seem as though Amy needed her to say anything.
“I don’t want a better teaching job,” she went on. “I like the teaching jobs I have, and I don’t need my doctorate to keep them. So what the hell am I doing?”
“I didn’t know you were so unhappy,” Brynn said when it was her turn to talk.
“Well, I am,” Amy said, “and I’m tired of it. Tired of plodding along in my safe little life, doing the ‘smart’ thing, waiting and hoping that what I want will come to his fucking senses sometime before we’re both old and gray.”
“Um…”
“So I’m not doing it anymore,” Amy declared. I’m done sitting on the sidelines in my own life. I’m going to go after what I want, goddammit, and Isaac Matthew Cates had just better be ready.”
Brynn had about ten thousand questions, but now didn’t feel like the time to ask them. “Atta girl,” she said instead and hoped her brother was taking his vitamins.
“You go after what you want, too,” Amy said. “Fuck what everybody else thinks.”
“Right,” Brynn said, unsure of her ground. Amy was the sensible, logical, responsible friend, and Brynn was the impulsive, irrational one. She wasn’t sure how she felt about this Freaky Friday situation. “Ames, I think you need to get some more sleep.”
“I’m gonna,” Amy said, the words slurred with fatigue. “And then I’m gonna seize the fucking day. Carpe the goddamn diem.”
“Okay,” Brynn said. “You carpe it all to hell. But sleep first, yeah?”
“Uh-huh. Brynn?”
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry I bet fifty dollars you wouldn’t be able to keep it in your pants.”
“That’s okay,” Brynn soothed. “I know you meant it as a joke.”
“No, I really didn’t think you could keep from banging him,” Amy said earnestly.
Brynn swallowed a laugh. “Go to sleep, okay? I’m going to have my mom check on you later.”
“Okay. I like your mom.”
“She likes you, too.”
“That’s nice. G’nite.”
“Nite.” Brynn waited until the call disconnected, then checked the time. At this hour Rachel Cates would be busy with children’s story hour at the main branch of the Lenawee District Library, so Brynn fired off a quick text and set her phone down, knowing her mother would be on her friend’s doorstep with food and love as soon as she could get someone to cover the reference desk.
Turning her attention back to her face, she made the necessary repairs to her eyeliner and finished the rest of her makeup with practiced efficiency. Her hair, left down to dry after her shower, was a quick and easy do—since she was wearing her fielder’s cap to the game, her two best options were to wear it down or up in a ponytail that she could pull through the back of the cap. With the temperature predicted to be in the high eighties, she was going with ponytail.
She took care of that, then put on her glasses and crossed to her closet. She’d made a trip to the storage unit in search of the Sparky Anderson jersey but hadn’t been able to dig it up, so she was going with comfort. The sun dress was a creamy peach with narrow spaghetti straps and a flippy, just-above-the-knee skirt that would hopefully help keep her cool. Of course, her thighs were going to sweat no matter what—and also chafe, because that’s what thick thighs do—so she was wearing a pair of moisture-wicking, anti-chafing shorts under the skirt. They were almost the same color as the dress, and also meant she didn’t have to worry about keeping her thighs pressed demurely together (she was going to a baseball game, who gave a shit about demure?). She had a cardigan to drape over her shoulders if the sun managed to penetrate the inch thick layer of sunscreen she’d slathered on, sneakers that would keep her feet comfortable on concrete, and her newly loaded debit card to keep her in beer, popcorn and whatever else she wanted to stuff in her face.
“Take me out to the ballgame,” she declared. Tilly, asleep on the faded beanbag under the window, snored in response.
Hoping she’d stay asleep, Brynn eased the door open and tiptoed down the hall. When she got to the living room without Tilly scrambling after her she relaxed and headed into the kitchen for a drink.
She opened the fridge and grabbed one of the fancy flavored waters she’d splurged on to celebrate her checking account getting out of the red. Lemon blueberry flavored, a case of twelve sixteen-ounce bottles cost thirteen dollars—an unimaginable extravagance just a week ago, now worked easily into her budget. Even knowing it, her heart had given a little lurch seeing the price flash up on the register at the grocery store.
She wondered when that would stop.
Across the room the bedroom door opened and turning, she almost choked on lemon blueberry water. Jude walked out of his bedroom, still tugging his shirt over his head, so she had about two seconds of admiring time before he had the shirt completely on and noticed her staring. It wasn’t nearly enough—she barely got a glimpse of muscled chest and rippled belly and that deep V of muscle that dipped tantalizingly into the waistband of his shorts—but it was enough to start her thighs sweating, and give her one more reason to be grateful for moisture-wicking, anti-chafing shorts.
Then the shirt was on and he was holding his hands out and saying, “Well?” and for a second she had no idea what he was talking about.
Then he spun in a circle, and she realized he was asking for approval on his clothes.
“Very nice,” she managed and gulped lemon blueberry.
“Yeah?” He completed his spin and looked down. “I wasn’t sure about the shorts. Is white a bad choice?”
She tossed the empty bottle into the recycling bin under the sink. “Only if you spill nachos on them.”
“Maybe I should change.”
“You’re fine,” she assured him. “Except…”
He looked up. “What?”
“The red shirt.”
“You said team gear.”
“I know, but the Tigers are playing the Red Sox today.”
“So?”
“So, it might look like you’re wearing their colors,” she explained. “Not a good look.”
“The Cougars team colors are red and white,” he reminded her.
She pursed her lips, considering. “Maybe if you had a black shirt with the logo on it.”
“It’s going to be ninety today, and you want me to wear black?”
“Good point.” She tapped a finger on her lips. “Do you have dark shorts and a white shirt?”
He dragged a hand through his hair and spun for the bedroom. “Shit.”
Not bothering to hide the grin, Brynn dug her phone out of her pocket. She’d bought a leather wallet case for it—another splurge—and had transferred her debit card, driver’s license, and some just-in-case cash to it earlier. She was wondering if she needed more when Jude stomped back out.
“This is the best I can do,” he said, hands on his hips and a mulish look on his face, and just to be contrary she took her time looking him over.
He’d swapped the white shorts for a pair in graphite gray and the red shirt for a white one with the Cougars logo embroidered in red over his left pec. The shirt was collarless, like a short-sleeved Henley but without the buttons, and made out of a soft knit that clung to his body like…well, like she wanted to. The shorts were casual but smart, showing off the fact that he never skipped leg day without being too look at my muscular thighs! Which was too bad for her but perfect for a public appearance.
“Well?” he demanded.
“I like it,” she declared.
“Thank God,” he muttered and collapsed in the chair so hard his hair flopped.
“Your hair’s getting long,” she observed.
“I know.” He scraped a hand through the blond mop of it. “I need a cut, but I keep forgetting about it.”
She flipped open her phone case, grateful for something to do. “I’ll make an appointment. You want morning or afternoon?”
“Afternoon, I guess. As soon as possible. And would you see if they can deal with the mustache, too?”
“You want a shave?” she asked, her heart breaking a little at the idea.
“No, I can’t shave it off. Bet, remember?”
She rolled her eyes. “Right, the bet. How could I forget?”
“I just need a trim. It keeps getting in my mouth when I eat or talk.” He swiped at it, making little pfft sounds like he was spitting out whiskers.
“I can trim it.”
He glanced up. “What?”
“I can trim it,” she repeated even as her brain screamed what the hell are you doing?! Abort! Abort!
“Really?”
Tell him no!
“Sure,” she said, her sense of self-preservation nowhere to be found. “I mean, if you want. The mustache, not the hair.”
“That would be great,” he enthused. “Seriously. I feel like I’m swallowing half of this thing every time I eat, and it’s grossing me out. I’m going to start coughing up hairballs soon.”
“Ew.” She set down her phone and circled the kitchen counter. “I’ll go get my scissors.”
He stood. “Where do you want me?”
She nearly tripped over her own feet. That’s what you get, her brain sneered. “Um…on one of the kitchen stools. And could you get a bath towel? So we don’t get whiskers on your clothes.”
“On it.”
“Great. Be right back.”
Shutting out the voice in her head telling her this was a terrible, no-good, very bad idea, she hurried down the hall to the guest bathroom for the scissors. They were salon-quality, gifted to her by her mother in college when she’d first begun cutting her own bangs, and she’d made a point to keep them in good nick—sharp, clean, and well-oiled. She’d learned to use them, too, for more than just bang trims. Trips to the salon had been one of the first things to get cut from the budget when money got tight, and the good scissors, combined with simple styling and a couple of good YouTube videos, had helped keep her hair looking good.
She’d never watched any videos about how to trim a mustache, but how hard could it be?
Scissors in hand, she grabbed her small hand mirror, reminded herself that it was just a mustache trim, for God’s sake, not a blowjob, and walked back down the hall. Jude was sitting on a kitchen stool facing the living room, one of his bathroom towels draped around his shoulders.
“How’s this?”
The towel was huge, so it wrapped around his shoulders and still covered him almost to his knees, which was good—it would protect his shorts from bits of stray hair, and also keep her from getting distracted by the way his thighs strained his shorts when he sat down. “Great,” she said, trying not to think of his thighs, and pulled the scissors out of their leather sheath.
He eyed the gleaming blades, his gaze wary. “Those look serious.”
“I use them for trimming my bangs,” she said, snapping them open and closed just to hear the quiet snick of quality steel.
“Sharp,” he commented.
“Yep,” she said, enjoying herself now. He was watching her with a hint of unease in his eyes, and she liked the sense of power.
He narrowed his gaze. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
She blinked, forcing her eyes wide in an expression of exaggerated innocence. “Moi?”
“Just so you know, if you cut me, you’re fired.”
She snickered. “Fair enough. Any particular way you want this trimmed? Handlebar? Chevron? Fu Manchu?”
“I know what a handlebar and a fu Manchu are, but what the hell’s a chevron?”
She tilted her head, considering the hair on his upper lip. “Pretty much what you’ve got now. Though if you let it grow down a little bit, you’d have a walrus.”
“What did you do, Google ‘different types of mustaches’?”
She shrugged. She had, but he didn’t need to know that.
“I just want to be able to put food in my mouth without also eating hair. Can you just, I don’t know, clean it up a little?”
“Sure. Tip your chin up,” she directed and stepped forward.
Right away she realized her mistake. First, stepping forward put her between his spread knees, which made her think of his thighs again. She could step back, but if she did that she’d have to either A) lean forward to reach his mustache, which would be murder on her back, or B) straddle his thighs, which would be even harder to ignore than standing between them. And second, when he tipped his head back his chin was right between her boobs.
Well, not right between them, but close enough to feel his breath on her skin, the effect of which was entirely predictable.
Her nipples went tight, her skin broke out in goosebumps, and her hand, which had been steadily trimming her own hair since her sophomore year of college, started to tremble.
“Is this good?” he asked, jerking her back to reality.
“Yeah. Great.” Jesus, even her tits were sweating. “So, just a trim?”
“Yeah,” he replied in a tone that said Didn’t I just say that?
“Right,” she said, feeling like a dork. A dork with hard nipples and wet panties.
“You okay?” Jude asked, a hint of awareness easing into his sharp blue gaze.
“Fine,” she chirped, fixing her eyes firmly on his mustache. She could get through this if she just concentrated on the mustache.
She lifted the scissors, gripping them tight so her hand wouldn’t tremble, and leaned in. She could see why he was getting irritated—the thick whiskers had grown to almost completely cover his upper lip, and were even hitting the lower one in spots. No wonder he was getting a mouthful every time he tried to eat.
“Hold still,” she warned and, sliding the scissors carefully between skin and hair, snipped.
Whiskers fell, sprinkling the dark blue towel with tiny strands of gold and bronze, and she slid the scissors forward and snipped again. Moving slowly to keep from accidentally catching his skin in the blades and breathing through her mouth to avoid his scent, she made her way from the right side of his mouth to the left. When she’d made the final snip, she straightened. “How does that feel?”
“Better,” he said, rubbing his lips together.
“I didn’t take off a lot,” she said, fighting the urge to rub her legs together. He was so warm and smelled so good, and no matter how hard she tried she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about his thighs. “I can do more if you want.”
“I think maybe a little more,” he said, still rubbing. “It still tickles.”
“Do you want it all the way off your lip?”
“Maybe not all the way. I don’t want it to look weird. Although…”
“What?”
“If it looks weird enough I’d have to shave it off,” he calculated. “Technically, that wouldn’t be reneging on the bet, right?”
“I’m not getting in the middle of that bet nonsense,” she told him and girding her loins— shit, don’t think about loins —leaned forward.
“Nonsense?” he repeated, eyes laughing at her. “What are you, eighty?”
She slid the scissors along his lip. “I was going to say ‘dumbassery’, but I’m trying to eliminate ableist language from my vocabulary.”
“Dumbassery is ableist?” he mumbled.
“Dumb is,” she said, dropping the scissors. “So dumbassery must be. Now keep your nonsense mouth still so I can do this.”
He snickered, eyes bright with laughter, but his mouth stayed still, so she brought the scissors up again and began to trim. Following the curve of his lip, she snipped carefully away until she got to the shallow dip in the center.
“What’s wrong?” he asked when she paused, frowning.
“I need a better angle.” She shifted, trying to angle in from the left, and bumped solidly into his thigh. “Sorry.”
“Do you need me to move?” He started to stand, his hip nudging her belly. He let out a strangled grunt. “Sorry.”
Oh, God. “It’s okay.” She swallowed. “You stay, and I’ll move.”
“Right.”
She backed out from between his knees and walked around to stand next to him. It was still awkward, but if she leaned against his thigh and bent in a little… “Can you turn your face away, just a little bit?”
He obliged. “Like this?”
“Perfect.”
With his face turned away he wasn’t looking at her anymore—which didn’t stop her boobs from sweating, but made it easier to concentrate. Resolved to finish quickly before she lost what was left of her good sense, she resumed trimming.
“Okay, look at me again,” she directed, eyeing the two sides of his mustache when he did.
He worked one hand free of the towel to stroke. “How’s it look?”
“A little uneven,” she muttered, walking back around to stand in front of him again. She nudged his hand down and went back in with the scissors. She snipped here and there, leaning back to evaluate after each cut, and finally nodded in satisfaction.
“I think we’re good.” Relieved—if her boobs kept sweating, she was going to have to change her dress—she picked up the mirror and handed it to him. “Take a look.”
He took it, turning his face this way and that. “Hey, nice job.”
“Thanks. Oh, damn, you’ve got stragglers. Tip back again.”
He obeyed, lowering the mirror and tilting his chin as she raised the scissors.
“Dammit,” she muttered, eyes narrowed. Half a dozen tiny little whiskers poked over his lip, and she kept missing them. Moving closer, she slipped her glasses off, reached past him to set them on the counter, and tried again. “Dammit!”
“Do you need me to move?” he mumbled, barely moving his mouth.
She shook her head. “It’s just these tiny little hairs. They’re right against your lip, and I can’t seem to grab them.” Another careful try, another miss. “Shit. I don’t want to accidentally cut you.”
She straightened, eyeing his mouth. “Can you do—” She rolled her top lip in. “Like that?”
He complied, pulling his lip down and in, and the little hairs popped clear. “Good. Hold that.” She leaned back in, clipping them easily now. “And…done.”
“You get ‘em?” he asked, licking his lips.
“Yep,” she answered, then, “Oh, sorry,” when he started pffting. “There might be some hair on your lip still.”
“No— pfft —kidding— pfft .”
“Here,” she said, fighting back a laugh. “Let me.”
She lifted the corner of the towel from around his shoulder, made sure it didn’t have any hair on it, and gently wiped his mouth. Most of the whiskers came away with the first swipe of terry cloth, but a few remained, even after she went after them a second time. “Stubborn,” she muttered. Dropping the towel, she tried to brush them away with her fingertips.
He went still at her touch, but she was so focused on getting rid of those last few wispy hairs that the warning bells clanging in the back of her brain didn’t quite register. She caught one in her fingernail, flicking it away, but the last one didn’t want to budge, clinging to that dip in the center of his upper lip like its hairy little life depended on it, and without thinking she braced her hands on his thighs, pursed her lips and tried to blow it off.
He went stiff as a corpse, the alarm bells went wild, and the boob sweat shifted into overdrive.
“Oh, damn,” she whispered.
“Brynn?” Jude said.
She swallowed, keeping her eyes on his mouth. If she looked into his eyes, she was a goner. “Yeah?”
“Are you okay?”
Maybe staring at his mouth was the wrong thing to do now that she thought about it. The lush curve of it, perfectly displayed now by neatly trimmed whiskers, wasn’t doing her heart rate any favors. “I’m fine,” she lied. “Your mustache looks, um, good. Really…” Delicious. Kissable. Ridable. “Good.”
His thighs flexed under her hands, and the slight jostling had her holding on a little tighter. He grunted. “Glad to hear it. Brynn?”
Ridable . How would that thick bristle feel between her thighs? Would it be too much? Just enough? “Hmm?”
“You’re killing me.”
“Oh!” She straightened, snatching her hands off his legs. “I’m sorry. Was I leaning on you too hard?”
He looked her dead in the eyes. “No.”
“Oh.”
There was so much heat in his sharp blue gaze, so much want and lust and pure, unadulterated need that she felt like she was sitting at the top of the tallest roller coaster at Cedar Point, looking out over Lake Erie with her heart in her throat, thrilled and terrified because she knew any second she was going to be flying out into space. Except flying out into space had been replaced with in Jude’s arms and it was so exciting she thought she might faint.
“I really want to kiss you,” he said, his voice a strangled rasp that scraped over her already stretched nerves like sandpaper. Delicious, delightful sandpaper.
She could only nod while giddy anticipation bubbled in her chest. “Okay.”
His hands clenched into fists. “And other stuff.”
“I like other stuff,” she said and lurched forward, eager for all the stuff.
“But I can’t.”
She stumbled to a halt. “You can’t?”
He shook his head, agony twisting his face. “I can’t be that guy.”
“What guy?” she asked, not understanding. The one who made her come screaming? Yes, he could—she’d show him how.
“The guy who makes a move on his assistant,” he said firmly.
“Then I’ll make the move,” she offered, and with Amy’s voice saying carpe the goddamn diem in her head, she grabbed the side of his face in both hands, jerked his head back, and kissed him.
Jude froze for maybe three seconds. Then it hit him— Brynn is kissing me— and the shock burned off in a flood of stunned joy and sizzling lust.
Her lips were soft and slick and thrillingly aggressive, pressing and twisting, tugging and rubbing while her hands held his head in place. Desire was a mule kick to the belly, a knockout punch to the head, leaving him dazed and shaky and wanting more.
Much, much more.
She made a sound against his mouth, a plea, a demand, and he answered it, closing his teeth on her bottom lip. He nipped, then sucked, then swept his tongue into her mouth and lost himself in the taste of her.
Swamped with feelings, his thoughts a lust-soaked swirl, he dragged her closer with hands he hadn’t been aware of clamping onto her hips. Her belly hit his, soft and sweetly rounded, giving him a hundred more sensations to process and a thousand more needs pricking at him like needles.
“More,” she breathed, her tongue chasing his.
“More,” he agreed and surged to his feet, ready to scoop her up and carry her to the bed or the couch or better yet the damn floor, it was closest, and then his front door sprang open and a big hairy redheaded man with a beard and a curvy brunette with cherry cola streaks in her dark hair burst in yelling “Surprise!”