I’m also wondering if the makeup isn’t a little too extra for a workday. My eyes are, as ever, lined in kohl, but I added a red blush across my nose and cheeks, then used some white eyeliner to add freckles.
I’m calling it festive goth.
Junior and Trip weren’t as discreet as they thought when I pulled up to Rebel Sky the other day. I didn’t hear everything, but “goth kitten” definitely made its way to my ears, as did Junior worrying that I’d be able to pull my own weight.
I wanted to prove myself, so I made sure to participate in the meeting. I think it worked because every time I looked over at Junior, he was looking over at me. Like maybe he was trying to solve a problem. Then I felt like—maybe?—Junior and I had a moment after the meeting.
Anyway, I got up this morning and decided I wanted to be pretty for him.
Yep, stupid as fuck.
Sitting here, I have plenty of time to talk myself into a spiral. Junior is efficient and brawny and says something really fucking smart every time he opens his mouth. Like, he’s barely old enough to drink but sounds more confident and put together than most men twice his age. I doubt he’s impressed with me at all.
I bet I have time to wash off this makeup.
I’m halfway through my coffee and fully invested in my idiocy when Junior walks up to my table. I think I’m meant to ignore that his bulge—and it is a fucking bulge—is right in my face. Instead, I take in the red-and-green plaid open over a whiteY’all Means AllT-shirt.
“You’re wearing a Santa hat,” I say, smiling up at him.
Way to state the obvious, Tanner.
He winks and pulls a hat out from his back pocket. “Brought you one too.”
I inhale sharply and snatch it from him.
“It’s a goth Christmas hat.”
I finger the black felt and fake black fur, smiling way too big for this early in the morning. They aresogoing to pull my emo card for this.
Despite the ridiculous amount of time I spent working on my hair this morning, I put it on and shimmy my shoulders.
“Glad to see you in the Christmas spirit,” he says, delicately running a calloused finger over my nose. “I like your makeup.”
Ignoring what that barely-there touch does to me, I’m grateful the blush covers the flush on my cheeks. I reach up and tug his trim sun-bleached beard. He’s one of those guys who’s been able to grow a full beard since he was, like, a sophomore.
God, I bet he’s got amazing chest hair.
“Me? You look like Santa when he was young and hot.”
Shit. Don’t flirt with him.
Or do?
His chuckle is deep and real. “Am I supposed to take that as a compliment?”
“It is one hundred percent a compliment.”
His T-shirt isn’t tucked in, and his no-doubt furry belly is right there, but I fist my hands and will my curious fingers to stay in place. I have no control over my mind, however, which drifts to thoughts of how it might feel to hug him bare-chested. Warm, I bet.
Mmph.
“Anyway, it’s nice to see you here early, newbie,” he says good-naturedly. “Let me grab breakfast real quick.”
I nod like a broken doll, then curse myself while he stands in line. His muscular ass and thighs are gorgeous in those perfectly worn-in Wranglers. I can’t tell if the way they cup his crotch or his ass is better, and my brain immediately provides me with the perfect meme.
Both? Both.
He grabs a coffee and a pastry and joins me at the table. “Are those steel-toe boots?” he asks, gingerly taking a sip of his coffee.
