“You’re a genius,” I whisper.
“I know,” she whispers back. “Would a violent man volunteer to steam sparkly ball gowns for charity in an apron? No, he would not. You know who would, though? A sweet, pussy-whipped man dying to make his old lady girlfriend happy.”
I lean in as I murmur, “I love keeping my sexy, totally in-her-prime girlfriend happy.”
“Oh yeah?” Her gaze drops to my lips.
“Yeah,” I promise. “And being whipped by your pussy is hashtag life goals.”
She laughs, that startled, cute as fuck giggle from before that I’m already collecting like season goals. “Well, thank you. I think.”
“You’re welcome.” I curl a hand around her thigh, the way I’ve been dying to since we got in the car. “Seriously, thank you. This is perfect.”
“You’re welcome,” she says, her voice breathier than before. “I’m just getting started. By the time I’m done with you, you’ll be the new Boy Scout of the NHL.”
I follow her out of the Range Rover, hoping she’s right.
Especially the part about the two of us just getting started…
Seven
NIX
Twenty minutes later, I’m sporting a pink apron that says “I’m SEW Hot Right Now” across the front, white satin gloves to my elbows, and a big grin.
Turns out playing dress up is fun.
So much fun it makes me wish my little sister, Beatrice, had been into dolls as a kid. We had a good time with Lego sets and art projects every Christmas, but spiffing up a few dolls might have actually been a good time. I’m certainly having a blast this afternoon.
But then, almost everything is a blast with Charlotte.
And we’re a good team. We established a rhythm early on—I hold up the dresses while she steams, sparing me from being hissed at by her machine, which decided it hated me at first touch. Then, she guides the dresses into place, I pin them to the straw, and we both decide on which wig is the most flattering for our scarecrow’s facial structure.
Transforming our plain straw canvases into only slightly creepy works of art is satisfying. Nearly as satisfying as all the excuses Charlotte finds to touch me as we work…
She fondles my forearms every chance she gets, wraps an arm around my waist as we evaluate wig colors, and presses a long, lingering kiss to my cheek when we finally break for water.
“Okay, now we need to decide on tiaras and crowns,” Charlotte says, screwing the lid back on her bottle. “Where do you want to start?”
“With Princess Belle, obviously,” I say, nodding toward the third scarecrow down, the one we decked out in a yellow dress and brunette wig. “Girls who read are the hottest.”
Charlotte hums. “Oh, yeah? Do you really think that? Or are you just kissing up to me because you know I’m in three book clubs?”
“Ididn’tknow you were in three book clubs,” I say, my voice dropping to a growl as I aim my lips at hers. “But now I’m even hotter for you than I was before.”
“Sorry to interrupt,” a voice chirps from a few feet away. “But I was wondering if I could ask you two a few questions for the local news? I’m Hannah Provost with Channel 6.”
Charlotte and I pull apart with matching “no problem” grins.
“Of course,” I say, smiling at the reporter, a cute redhead in her late-twenties beside an older man with a large camera. “Where would you like us?”
“In front of those scarecrows in pink would be great, the light is perfect over there.” She moves with us, mic in hand, and the operator close on her heels.
After she has us state our names and affiliations—Gathering and Grace Events for Charlotte, the NOLA Voodoo for me—the cameraman flips on a light at the front of his setup, and Hannah asks, “Ready?”
“Ready,” Charlotte says.
“Ready,” I confirm, grateful for the “you’ve got this” nod she sends my way.
