Chapter Seven #5
“Because she trusts me to keep her safe,” he said simply. “And this is the best way I know to do that and still give her what she wants.”
She stared at him for so long he had to fight the urge to squirm. He was on the verge of losing the battle when she said, “Well, shit.”
He heard Jesse’s quiet laugh, but didn’t dare look away from Chloe. “I don’t know what that means.”
She huffed out a breath and picked up the plate she’d set in front of him. “It means I have to get you a new sandwich.”
She turned, taking the plate with her through the kitchen door, and Nash turned to a grinning Jesse.
“Congratulations, brother,” he said, tapping his water to the beer Nash still held. “I think the frost is thawing.”
* * * *
Nash worked the rest of the day in a haze. He’d had an enjoyable—and spit-free—lunch, and though Chloe hadn’t exactly been warm, she had been decidedly less hostile, and agreed to give her endorsement to Sawyer along with Jesse’s.
It was more than he’d expected, and his profuse thanks had seemed to fluster her. Which he’d enjoyed and refused to feel guilty about.
Now he just had to be patient, and hope that Sawyer would contact him—especially since he didn’t have a backup plan.
He really didn’t want to involve any of his friends. Not that they weren’t good guys—they were—but half of them were married or in relationships, and the ones that weren’t were…well, not up to Bailey’s standards. Or rather, his standards for her.
He didn’t think any of his friends qualified as ‘brag bros’, as she’d put it, at least not inherently so.
But men talked to each other as much as—sometimes more than—women did, especially about sex.
And a scenario like this—a porn fantasy come to life—could definitely bring out the brag bro in an otherwise discreet and circumspect man.
Besides, he didn’t really want to have to explain the situation, and if his wish was granted and he and Bailey ended up back together, he really didn’t think it would be wise to have someone he knew—and that they might socialize with—on the group project team.
No, it was better to keep it to the professionals. If only Sawyer would contact him.
“What are you muttering about?” Bailey asked.
Nash glanced up. It was Tuesday night, and he was standing in the kitchen while his frozen pigs-in-a-blanket cooked in the air fryer, checking his emails for the thousandth time since lunch yesterday.
“Nothing,” he said and tucked the phone in his pocket. She stood in the kitchen doorway in jeans and a black T-shirt that read my favorite season is the fall of the patriarchy, her hair up in a clip and her eyes tired. “You’re home late.”
“Hair emergency,” she said and plunked her purse on the kitchen table before collapsing into a chair. “Why do people watch YouTube videos and think they can do everything?”
“What did they think they could do?”
“Bleach their hair—dark brown hair—then add vibrants.”
“Vibrants?”
“Vibrant hair color,” she clarified, and pulled the clip out of her hair. The purple-streaked mass came tumbling down around her shoulders. “Bright ones, like this purple.”
“Ah. I take it they messed it up.”
“An understatement. She’s fourteen and wants rainbow hair, but rainbow hair is expensive.”
“How expensive?” Nash wanted to know, thinking a couple hundred dollars.
“Between the product and the time involved, at least six hundred.”
“You’re kidding.”
Bailey shook her head, sending the mass of hair dancing. “Probably closer to a grand, considering the kid had enough hair for three people, halfway down her back. Her mom said she’d cover it if her grades were good enough, but she got a D in algebra, so no go. She decided to do it herself.”
“And messed it up.”
Bailey rolled her purple eyes. “Oh, yeah. Fried it—figured if she went with a stronger lightener and left it on longer than the package said, she’d cut the process time in half. We had to cut almost six inches off. I thought she was going to cry.”
Nash leaned back against the counter, enjoying the recitation. “And Mom?”
“Pissed, but grateful it could be fixed.”
“And? Does the kid have rainbow hair?”
Bailey smiled. “She does. And she’s mowing the lawn until she graduates from college to work it off.”
“You gave them a discount, didn’t you?”
“Just a little one.”
“Softie.”
“Guilty.” She circled her neck, wincing when it popped.
“Sore?”
“And starving. I haven’t had dinner.”
“Want some pigs-in-a-blanket?” he asked.
“Thanks, but I ordered a pizza.” She eyed him with amusement. “Is that what you’re having for dinner?”
“No, that’s what I’m having for a snack. It’s after nine.”
“Believe me, I know.” She rose from the table, pressing one hand to her lower back. “I’m going to take a shower before my pizza gets here. If it shows up before I get out, will you get it?”
“Sure.”
“Thanks. It’s already paid for.”
“Okay.” The air fryer dinged. “Want a pig to hold you over until it gets here?”
She laughed. “No, I’m good.”
He watched her go, then pulled his snack out of the air fryer. He put them on a plate, hissing when they burned his fingers, then opened the cupboard for a can of spray cheese.
She must have taken the world’s fastest shower, because she was back before he’d finished the last blanketed pig.
“Are you putting spray cheese on those?” she demanded.
He looked up from his plate and reminded himself not to drool.
Her wet hair hung in a braid, her face pink from the heat of her shower and scrubbed clean.
She wore a pair of thin cotton pajama pants in green and white stripes that sat loose and low on her hips and a snug tank with skinny straps that matched the green.
It was one of those built-in-bra deals—he could see the extra layer of material—and though it effectively covered her breasts, it did nothing to restrain them.
Between that and the tantalizing strip of skin exposed between pants and shirt that bared her belly button and the edge of her hip bone, he was glad he was sitting down—and had yet to change out of the jeans he’d worked in.
“Spray cheese is delicious,” he informed her, and squirted a line on his last pig.
“That’s disgusting, Nash,” she said when he popped it into his mouth.
“You eat oysters,” he mumbled and swallowed. “You have no room to talk.”
“You sound like Gwen,” she said, amused, then turned when the doorbell rang. “Huzzah, pizza.”
She spun to the door, braid flying and barely restrained breasts bouncing. Cursing himself for going along so easily with her sex-is-off-the-table edict, he shoved up to take his plate to the sink. He’d washed it, dried it, and was putting it back in the cupboard when she walked in with the pizza.
She put it on the table and lifted the lid, inhaling the fragrant steam that spilled out with undisguised bliss. “Mmm, that smells good. Will you hand me a plate?”
He handed her the one he’d just washed. “Did you get your usual?”
She glanced up. “Yeah. Want a slice?”
He twisted his face into a grimace. “God, no.”
“It’s ham and pineapple, Nash, not belladonna and hemlock.”
Pleased to see the amusement in her eyes—hazel again, she’d ditched the contacts—he added an exaggerated shudder. “It’s revolting.”
“Okay, Spray Cheese.”
He snorted out a laugh and plucked the beer he’d opened to have with his snack off the table. “Want one of these?”
“Yes, please.”
He pivoted to the fridge to get her one.
“Thanks.” She took it, twisted off the cap and took a sip, her eyes on his over the bottle.
“What?” he asked when she’d lowered it.
“Nothing.” She lowered her gaze and picked up her plate. “I’m going to watch some TV while I eat.”
“Okay.” He wanted, almost desperately, to ask if he could join her, but he bit the words back. The next move needed to be hers, at her pace. Reminding himself he was playing the long game, he took a step back. “I'll see you later.”
He’d turned toward his bedroom and taken three steps when she said, “Want to join me?”
He stopped, and was careful to have an expression of mild curiosity on his face when he turned back. “Depends. What are you watching?”
“Heated Rivalry.”
“I think I’ve heard of that. It’s about hockey, right?”
Plate in one hand, beer in the other, she walked into the living room. “Uh-huh, hockey.”
“That works for me,” he decided and followed her.
She settled cross legged on the cushions and, with her plate balanced on her knee, reached for the remote. After a brief internal debate between couch and chair, he sat on the couch.
When she pulled up the streaming service, he saw she was already on episode two. “Catch me up so I know what’s going on.”
“They’re rivals, and it’s heated.” She thumbed the remote, going back to episode one, and hit play.
“You don’t have to go back for me,” he told her.
“I watched the first episode back in December, so I’ve forgotten most of it anyway.” She set the remote down and picked up her pizza.
“Couldn’t have been that good, if you didn’t keep watching it.”
She shook her head, holding up a finger while she chewed and swallowed. “No, it’s good, I just got busy. But season two is coming out soon, so I have to catch up.”
He nodded, pleased with the way the evening was playing out. Sure, it was only watching a TV show together, but she’d made the move.
It was a start, he decided, and settled in to watch.
Fifty minutes later, he shot her a glare. “You said this was about hockey.”
“It is about hockey,” she replied, gesturing to the screen where the credits for episode one were scrolling. “There was ice and skates and sticks and pucks—”
“This is the horniest thing I’ve ever seen outside of porn,” he interrupted.
She choked back a giggle. “Actually, I think it’s hornier than porn.”
She wasn’t wrong.
“Anyway, you’re straight,” she went on with a reasonableness that was completely negated by the glee dancing in her eyes. “A show with two guys shouldn’t be affecting you.”
“Are you kidding me?” He pointed to his lap, where the fit of his jeans had become very uncomfortable over the last fifty minutes. “Does that look unaffected to you?”