I want to color them.
A small bandage in the clouds is coming loose from his sweaty skin, but I can’t tell what happened. Maybe a scrape or burn from helping with my car? I hope it didn’t mess up my pretty coloring book.
Stop it!
My eyes slide down his torso, chasing some words in a cursive script along his left side. I’m desperate to read them. Memorize them. Possibly with my tongue.
Oh, hell on a stick.
Somehow, I stop myself before my head flops sideways to study him and drool runs out of my mouth.
Justwhy?
The words are a blur. I can’t make anything out of them.
Because I’m underwater.
Drowning. Drowned. All the waydrownt.
How did I even get here? I’m with his seventy-something-year-old great aunt having all kinds of sweaty unclean thoughts about myneighborwho is not myfiancé.
What’s wrong with me?
Is Poison playing somewhere? Just in my head?
Inhale. Exhale.
Blink. I should blink.
Aunt Judy answers his “loves who?” question, probably aware that I’m in no condition to do so. “Bret Michaels, sweetheart. Why are you so sweaty?”
Dang, she’s smooth. If I weren’t already deceased, I’d die laughing.
He grins, messy hair releasing beads of sweat down his face and chest faster than he can wipe it with the shirt he’sstillnot wearing.
“Yeah, she likes old guys. We were listening to agreatsong earlier. I forgot about it until she sang it to me. A classic,” that son of a biscuit says straight-faced as he subtly winks at me.
How does he do that? Most guys look stupid when they wink. He does it constantly, and I nearly choke on my own spit every time.
Forget it. I hate him. I can’t say words so I can’t tell him, but I officially hate him. That’s a bad call, hit by pitch, balk, blocking the play at home plate, pitching with a sticky substance, and every other dirty play—bringing up the hallway song while shirtless.
This is notregularshirtless. This is shirtless 2.0. He looked good before. I can admit that. But this isn’t good. This iswow.Someone, throw him out of this game immediately and get him a freaking shirt before I die a second death right here. Are there no rules?
“The guys said they were finished with her car in the garage where it was cool and told me to back it into the driveway.” I blink, helplessly following the shirt he wipes over his neck and chest as he speaks. “Then they decided I needed to air her tires and get under the car to be sure there were no oil leaks. I think they were just making sure I remembered how, but it’s ninety degrees out there!”
That’s true, but even in my altered mental state, I know he’s enjoying this.
Aunt Judy chuckles. “Well, you knew they’d give you a hard time. You still have some clothes in the blue room. Go clean up. We’re having a fabulous time.”
“Give me fifteen minutes and we’ll head out, okay, Lu?” He throws the soaked shirt over his shoulder and laces his hands together through his hair to hold it off his face. Every muscle in his torso flexes like he’s some kind of freaking underwear model, giving me a clear view of all the late-night reading I desperately want to get started on. Determined not to study him now, I just nod and turn toward Aunt Judy in the most obvious possible way.
I’m calling him so many words—bad, bad words—in my head, and he has the audacity to squeeze my shoulder before heading down the hallway.
“Breathe, honey,” she says with amused satisfaction. “I think that was your sign, don’t you?”
She laughs and moves closer to hug me.
“A sign-stealing scandal,” I mutter, doubtful she understands the baseball reference.
