I flip the ottoman over, continuing to staple the fabric around the edges. The stapler jams again and I curse under my breath. I hold it up, firing a couple of times. Myles bends to pick up a book from the floor and against my better judgment, my eyes stray to his ass, noticing for the first time that it’s quite nice, and—
“Ow!” He leaps up, one hand grasping his butt cheek as he whirls around to glare at me. “What the fuck was that?”
Oh… shit.
“I’m so sorry!” I drop the staple-gun, raising a hand to my mouth in horror. I feel my lips twitch and I clamp my hand over them. I cannot laugh at this. This isnotfunny. “It was the gun. It jammed, and I accidentally—”
“Youshotme?!” He looks down at the weapon in disbelief. “In the ass?”
I jump to my feet. A laugh squeaks out of my mouth and I press my lips flat, trying to contain it.
“Are youlaughing?”
“No! Of course not.” I attempt a serious expression, but it’s no use. My lips tug into a grin and another laugh breaks free.
Myles stares at me incredulously.
“I’m sorry,” I say, full-on chortling now. “But it’s pretty funny, if you think about it—”
“It’s not funny!” He gives me a hurt look. “It really stings.” He twists around to look but the staple is too low, under his back left pocket.
I stare at the tiny piece of metal lodged in his backside, my shoulders shaking. Who knew something so small could bring a guy like Myles down so easily? I should have shot him ages ago.
“Stop laughing!” He shoves me. “You have to help. You have to get it out.”
“What?!” I roar with laughter. “I’m not taking a staple out of your ass!”
“Please?” He twists around again, patting his backside tentatively. “It really hurts.”
I slow my giggles, sucking in a breath as I wipe my eyes. “Okay, fine. Let me take a look.” I crouch down behind him, but I won’t be able to reach it properly with the way he’s standing; it’s tucked under his butt cheek.
I push to my feet, trying to keep a straight face. “You’re going to have to bend over.”
“I’m not bending over, Cat.”
“Then I can’t help you.”
He groans. “Fine. Fuck.” He kneels on the sofa and bends forward, his cheeks coloring. My lips twitch again and he sends me a look. “Don’t youdarelaugh.”
I raise my hands. “Okay, okay.” I step behind him, kneeling down behind his butt, leaning in to inspect the staple. I reach out to touch it and he squeaks. “It’s in pretty deep. Give me a second.”
His eyes follow me as I walk to the kitchen, rooting in the drawer before pulling out a fork. He blanches as I saunter toward him, brandishing the fork with an evil grin.
“You know,” I say casually, “it’s quite strange seeing you like this. Wounded and desperate for my help. Usually you’re so damn smug, but here you are on your knees, begging for mercy.”
He manages a half-grin. “If you wanted me on my knees you could have just asked. You didn’t have to shoot me.”
I snort a laugh. Typical Myles.
I kneel behind him again, placing a hand on his right butt cheek to keep him still. Despite the situation, he lets out a growl—andnota growl of pain.
“Stop it,” I warn, holding up the fork, “or I’ll stab you, too.”
He chuckles, then grips the back of the sofa. “Okay, just get it out.”
I press down on the denim and slide one tine of the fork under the staple. “Ready?”
He nods meekly. I suppress another laugh at his response.Not such a big man after all, Myles.
