The search results are not comforting.
Harris returns, his hot, naked body half covered in pink splotches of calamine lotion; he looks like a walking strawberry milkshake.
“Your turn,” he says solemnly, tossing the bottle onto the bed. I grab the bottle and give it a shake to activate the ingredients.
Harris raises his eyebrows. “Need help?”
I blink at him. “Help with what?”
He grins, bending down to swipe his boxer shorts from the floor. “Rubbing it over your tits.”
I roll my eyes toward the ceiling and snort. “I am not asking you to rub lotion on my boobs.”
He grins wickedly. “But I’m volunteering as tribute!”
“So? I’m too itchy to let you touch me—even if the sight of you makes me horny.”
He sits on the edge of the bed, pulling on his underwear. “Why Lucy—that’s the most romantic thing a woman has ever said to me.”
I laugh, pop open the bottle, and apply it liberally to my right arm, rubbing the thin lotion into my elbow and down my forearm. I groan, trying to twist and reach that impossible spot between my shoulder blades.
Harris watches me struggle for a beat, then holds out his hand. “Please tag me in, Coach. I’ll behave.”
I hesitate. Behave? He’s not capable.
He wiggles his fingers.Gimme.“I promise to be professional. No funny business.”
I narrow my eyes. “You’re incapable of no funny business.”
He grins. “Valid point. But also—itchy emergencies call for teamwork.”
I hand him the bottle with a dramatic sigh. “Fine. You may apply lotion—butonlybecause I can’t reach.”
He stands next to the bed, turning me so he has access to my entire back, then twists the cap off the pink bottle with an exaggerated motion. Gently runs his cool palms over my back. “Sorry this is cold.”
“It’s fine.” It feels amazing. I nearly melt because it’s already soothing my skin. “Marry me.”
“So easy to win you over.” He nuzzles my ear. “Ask me again twelve months from now.”
I roll my eyes. “Never will I ever propose to a man.”
Harris laughs, the sound warming my tummy from the inside out. I rest my chin on my arms as he smooths lotion along my spine. His touch is gentle, almost reverent—and if I weren’t so miserably itchy, I may indeed be swooning.
When he finishes smoothing the last bit of lotion along my back, I expect him to let me flop forward in my misery—but instead, he hooks his arms around my waist and hauls me right into his lap.
I let out a surprised squeal, legs draped over his thighs. He tucks my head under his chin.
“I cannot wait,” he says, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “For Friday.”
Friday is Arizona. Friday is his city, his friends, his house.
I will have to cancel classes, tell my parents I’ll be out of town, find someone to open and close the studio ...
I didn’t consider any of these things when I agreed to go. I inhale a breath, reminding myself not to panic.
I can do this.
But Harris feels the tension in my body and pulls back to tilt my chin up. “Hey.”
