“I’m sorry, you’re right.” She snatches it back, then tosses a second one into the cart. “Sorry. I don’t mean to shoot down all your ideas.”
“Olive,” I muse. “That’s sort of a nature name, though maybe it’s more of a cocktail garnish.”
“Luke—”
“You said ‘sorry’ twice, so I get to add another name to the list.” This is fun. “How do you feel about Pearl? That’s an old-timey name like you want.”
Hazel sighs. “I’m not a fan, though I’m open to compromise.”
“Atta girl.”
“I’m not your girl.”
“Right.” I grab another onesie off the rack. “This one’s cute.”
She reads off the words on the front of it. “All my mom wanted was a backrub.” A faint hint of color graces her cheeks. “Not technically true.”
Gotta love how literal she is. “No?”
“I wanted to jump you, so I did.” She smirks when my jaw drops. “What, funny guy? You don’t corner the market on irreverent humor.”
“You’re right. I love when you unleash your inner comedienne.” I also know damn well she liked what we did in her foyer. “How’s your back, by the way?”
“Fine.” Her wince says that’s not the full truth.
“You said last night on the phone that your back’s been bothering you.”
“It’s not bad. It’s mostly just my shoulders.” Rolling them gently, she winces again. “Maybe I’ll schedule a prenatal massage.”
“No need.” Palming the delicate mounds of her shoulders, I spin her around. Before she can protest, I’m digging my thumbs into the bunched muscles at the base of her neck. “How’s that pressure?”
“Oh, God.” Groaning, she melts in my hands. “Right there.”
“More?”
“Yes.” She’s a glorious puddle under my touch. “That feels amazing.”
“How about this?” Squeezing her biceps, I ripple my fingertips over the tops of her shoulders. “You’re kinda tense right here.”
“How are you so good at this?”
“Magical hands, baby.”
The groan she unleashes spurs smiles from a couple nearby. “Don’t call me baby.”
“Right.”
“Don’t stop.” She sounds breathy and wild and I love it. “I might be a little touch starved.”
“You don’t say.” I’m not familiar with the term, but I can figure it out from context. It’s not hard to tell Hazel Spencer craves physical contact. “You’re really tight right through here.”
She moans as my thumbs knead the knots in her shoulders. “Harder, please.”
“This okay?”
Another soft groan slips from her lips. “Sweet baby Jesus, you’re good.”
“I know.” I love how she’s gripping her cart with white knuckles. She’s putty in my hands, and I swear I could do this all day.
