Authors: Julie Johnson
I obviously hadn’t given much thought to appropriate outfit selection when I rushed out this mornin
g.
Head held high, I wandered further into the
quiet store, looking for the paint section. It took me a few minutes, but I eventually found the colors I’d been searching for amidst what seemed like thousands of cardstock sample palettes. I grabbed the two I needed and made my way to the front counter, where a thin, balding, taciturn man of middle years was mixing paint.
“Can you mix me a gallon of each of these, please?” I asked, handing over the two paint samples and attempting to
subtly shift my shirt higher to hide the cleavage he’d begun to eye rather enthusiastically. His fingers lingered on mine as he took the cardstock from me, and I suppressed a shudder. The man, whose nametag read Hank, leered at me with a suggestive smile that was missing more than a few teeth before disappearing into the back room. Presumably to mix my paint. Or to grab some zip ties and rope that he could use to restrain and abduct me. It was pretty much a toss up, at this point.
I was mentally calculating the probability of my being able to
outsprint Hank in my flimsy – but oh so cute – wedges when he reappeared, a can of paint in each hand. When he told me the total, I tossed a few bills down on the countertop and hurriedly grabbed the paint can handles. I headed for the door, not even waiting for my change in my hurry to get away from Hank’s ogling, the less than friendly customers, and the uncomfortable store atmosphere.
“Come back again real soon, sweetheart!” Hank called after me as I used one hip to prop open the door.
“Not on your life,” I muttered under my breath. So much for my plan to support local small businesses. Next time, I was totally going to Home Depot, with its brightly lit aisles and plethora of cute employed college boys in orange aprons, eager to fill my every need. Okay, maybe not
every
need. But at least those that involved paint and hardware.
I finally managed to swing the door open, elbowing my way outside and struggling to balance both the paint and my purse while extracting my car keys.
I was looking down, cursing under my breath, when a large hand closed over mine and grabbed both cans of paint before I could even react. Startled, I jumped about a foot in the air and my purse dropped to the pavement, exploding on impact and sending everything, from tampons to my cellphone, flying in different directions. I watched forlornly as my favorite lip gloss rolled under my car and out of sight. The puddles riddling the parking lot all contained various forms of indistinguishable goo and piles of trash, insuring that I would never again be putting that tube anywhere near my lips.
“Well, at least you didn’t scream this time,” a familiar husky vo
ice chuckled from behind me. Every muscle in my body tensed with anger and I froze, still facing the car. “But seriously, Bee, we need to work on your reflexes if you’re going to pee your pants in fear every time I approach you. It’s either that or you start wearing adult diapers, and I don’t think that’s going to work for me.” His voice was threaded with amusement.
I turned, exceedingly slowly, to face him. Or, more accurately, to glare at him. I unle
ashed my iciest look, the one typically reserved for ass-grabbers and would-be rapists who got a bit too friendly on the dance floor.
Of course it had no effect on him.
He stood there, grinning like an idiot at me, looking more gorgeous than ever. His eyes crinkled, alight with humor and something less-easily defined. His toned arm muscles were on display as he held the paint cans aloft, the tattooed skin of his right bicep standing out prominently. I remembered the first time I’d seen the inky whorls that encased his upper arm – how I’d wanted to trace my fingers along the swirling patterns. Followed by my tongue.
Brooklyn! Pull it together. Jesus Christ.
I took a harsh swallow to banish those thoughts and refocused on how pissed I was, hoping like hell he hadn’t recognized the lust that had undoubtedly just flickered across my face.
“Well
, maybe if you would stop SNEAKING UP ON ME,” I yelled, launching myself into his space so I was nearly pressed against him and stomping one wedged sandal with indignation, “I wouldn’t scream or drop all of my things or lose my FAVORITE LIP GLOSS. I
loved
that lip gloss, Finn. And now, it’s in a gutter. A sticky, gooey, gutter. And why are you even here? Why are you
always
here? Are you stalking me or something?”
His lips twitched with amusement and I could tell he was trying desperately not to laugh. “Did you just stomp your foot
at me?” he asked, shoulders shaking with barely-contained mirth.
I glared at him and jerked my chin higher. I would
not
let him embarrass me. I would
not
back down. And I definitely would
not
continue to fantasize about kissing him until I ran out of air and passed out in his arms.
Shit.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone over the age of five do that,” he choked out, breaking down at last and throwing his head back to laugh at me. I smacked him hard on the arm, pivoted, and bent to retrieve some of my scattered belongings.
Finn
was wiping tears his eyes and still chuckling when I felt him squat down beside me. Then it was my turn to hold in the giggles, as I watched Finn Chambers – campus’ very own mythical sex god and legendary badass – scooping up my tampons and shoving them into my purse like they were on fire or dripping with arsenic. When everything – with the exception of one tube of Sexy Mother Pucker – was back in my purse, we stood up and faced each other.
I was still muttering under my breath about rude boys and the loss of my gloss, when
Finn stepped forward into my space and tilted my chin up so I was staring into his eyes. Words died on my tongue, my brain frazzled into static, and all I could think about was last night. My legs wrapped around his waist as he pressed me into the side of a pickup truck, his lips roaming down my neck, his mouth kissing away the tears that tracked down my cheeks.
His eyes captured mine and held,
the smoldering desire I saw burning in them telling me that he was thinking about last night too. One hand slowly lifted to stroke my cheek, his fingers skimming lighting over my cheekbone in a soft, almost reverent caress. The other hand threaded into my long ponytail and, with a gentle tug, he pulled me closer. I went willingly, my anger long forgotten.
His head lowered until his forehead was resting in the crook of my neck. He inhaled deeply, then let out a groan. “God, you smell incredible. Like cinnamon and apple pie. It should be illegal to smell the way you do.”
I let out a breathy laugh, which cut off sharply when I felt Finn’s tongue trace slowly up my neck. I shivered when his lips reached my ear and he tugged at the lobe with his teeth. His hands moved to my hips and he walked me slowly backwards until I was pressed between his body and the side of Lexi’s car.
“What is it with you and cars?” I
breathed teasingly.
His head lifted abruptly from its
lavish appreciation of my earlobe and he stared down at me, eyes suddenly serious. “It’s got very little to do with cars, and everything to do with you. Doesn’t matter where – I’m always going to want you, Bee. Every time I see you, it takes everything in me not to drag you against the nearest wall and taste that perfect pink mouth of yours.” His hooded gaze dropped to my lips.
His words sent another shiver through me, and I had a sudden realization that if he was
this sensual in a public parking lot, he would be a different creature entirely if – okay,
when
– we got behind closed doors. My thighs clenched together at that thought and I squirmed a bit under his heated gaze.
“
My very own caveman,” I drawled in a perfect, much-rehearsed Southern drawl that would make Vivien Leigh proud. He smirked roguishly and then, before I could react, his mouth captured mine.
His hands gently cupped my face with a tenderness that belied the demands of his lips. My mouth parted on a gasp and his tongue sought
mine immediately. I began to respond to his kiss, my hands twining up to grip his broad shoulders. When my tongue stroked gently against his in return, Finn groaned and pulled away, his breathing labored. Resting his forehead against mine, his blue eyes were full of tenuously-leashed passion.
He closed his eyes and pulled a deep breath in through his nose, trying to calm himself. I smirked, enjoying the effect I
’d had on him, and he stepped back to put a few feet between us, as if our close proximity was too tempting for him to remain in control.
“What’s with the paint?” he asked,
voice rough as he gestured toward the forgotten paint cans by my feet.
“I’m going to paint my bedroom,” I
responded with a casual shrug, as if it was no big deal, something I did every week. As if I were one of those girls – like Lexi – who spent hours on Pinterest looking at recipes, crafting ideas, and the 99 ways you can “upcycle” old newspapers into your very own fashion line. I had never and would never be that girl – planning my imaginary wedding twelve years in advance and picking out color palettes for my dream house.
Never
.
Finn
raised a questioning eyebrow at me but didn’t comment on my sudden desire to redecorate.
“Do you have rollers?” he asked.
I stared at him blankly for a minute, then looked away a bit sheepishly when I realized that, in my hurry to leave Andler’s, I’d forgotten to grab paintbrushes and rollers. I guessed I’d be making that trip to Home Depot after all.
“No,” I said, crossing my arms
defensively over my chest, mentally daring him to make fun of me. There would definitely be no more make-out sessions if he did, and I made sure my glare told him exactly that.
He smiled as if he could read my thoughts and, for once, didn’t tease me.
Smart choice.
“What about brushes? Coveralls? Painter’s tape?
Drop cloths? An edger? Primer?” He continued to rattle off paint supplies – none of which I had purchased – until I couldn’t even remember them all. I looked at him perplexedly, a bit taken aback.
Who knew painting required so many materials?
“Okay, so maybe I forgot
a few things,” I mumbled, not looking at him. His muffled laughter brought my eyes back to his face.
“I’ll meet you at your place in
a few hours,” he sighed. “I have to go grab some supplies.”
“I don’t need your help,” I snapped
automatically, trying to cover the flash of anxiety that had streaked through me at his words. “You’re not my boyfriend. And I’m not going to fuck you as a reward, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“
I helped Ty paint his bedroom last month and, shockingly, I didn’t fuck him after,” he growled menacingly. His eyes, which had been filled with warmth only seconds ago, were now flinty with anger. “And no, I’m not your boyfriend. But last time I checked, I was your friend. Friends help each other out – especially when one
friend
doesn’t know her ass from her elbow when it comes to painting.”
“
Okay,” I agreed, casting a caustically acquiescent smile up at him. “You can help.”
“You are the most
infuria–“ he broke off and took another calming inhale. It seemed he had to do this at near-constant intervals when he was around me. “I don’t know why I bother,” he muttered.
“
Because of my sparkling personality?” I asked, laughing a little at his blatant frustration with me.
“Somehow, I don’t think that’s it,” he said dubiously. “I’ll be at your house by two.”
I nodded in acceptance. He was right – I
didn’t
know my ass from my elbow when it came to home improvement. I could use all the help I could get.
“What are you doing here anyway?” I asked, glancing around the near-empty parking lot. His bike was parked a few spaces down from Lexi’s car.
“I was headed to the diner,” he said with a nod in the direction of Maria’s, the tiny breakfast place that abutted Andler’s and hadn’t been redecorated since the early 1970s. The retro feel gave the restaurant character, though, and it was a popular venue for hungover coeds after a long night of partying. Their pumpkin pancakes were legendary during the fall season.
My stomach rumbled at the thought and, with a final longing look cast at the restaurant, I glanced back at
Finn. If he weren’t there, I would have happily treated myself to a short stack, smothered in whipped cream and syrup. As it was, I’d have cut off my left foot before going in there now and eating with him in front of half of the student body. If I did, I might as well paint a sign across my ass that read “FINN CHAMBERS TAPPED THIS LAST NIGHT,” given all the gossip our morning appearance together would prompt.
If we were going to get involved, I wanted a signed contract – possibly in blood – stating that no one would
find out about us. My reputation was tarnished enough without adding a tryst with Finn to the list.
His lips twitched in amusement as he evaluated me.