I lift a brow. “You’re asking if I need help dressing myself?”
“What can I say? I’m a gentleman.”
“I think I can manage.”
We’re quick to get into our costumes—me in a cheerleading uniform that’s seen better days and Dawson in a pair of tattered lumberjack pants with suspenders to hold them in place. No shirt. I repeat, no shirt. Just that finely muscled torso with abs for days.
Since there’s a lot to do in one day, we get started. There’s no need to go Hollywood quality with the makeup here, so I keep it basic as I dirty up Dawson’s skin, giving him smudges here and there. Even when I place one over the scar by his eyebrow, and along the corner of his jaw, I’m struck by just how flawless his face is. Scars, smudges, and all.
My arm slightly blocks my view as I search his face, saving his eyes for last. I don’t intend to let my gaze linger there, but his brown eyes are fixed on me. A raw flash of heat floods my chest. It’s unfair for anyone to look like him.
I clear my throat and add more product to the applicator. “You should try to get…cuter somehow,” I joke as I dab the sponge on the tip of his nose.
“Cuter?”His face scrunches. “Cute is for cats.Niceones, anyway. Or puppies.”
“Hmm,” I say with a nod. “Then you should probably try to get handsomer.”
He laughs a little, causing the mark I’m making on his cheekbone to smear.
“Really,” I say. “I feel sorry for you having to be so…average.” He knows I’m joking of course, and that this is simply my way of complimenting him.
“I’ll try.”
“Good, because…woof.”
“Now you’re just being mean.”
“I know.”
“Is it my turn to getyoudirty?” His tone is so seductive I nearly drop the makeup sponge. I scold him with my eyes.
“What, did I say that wrong?” he asks.
I only smile and hand over the sponge.
“Okay,” Dawson says, dunking the applicator’s tip into the product. “I paid close attention, so let’s see how I do.”
Already, I know he’s got way too much makeup on the sponge, but I take his statement to mean that he doesn’t want my help yet.
A tri-fold mirror stands above the vanity. I use it to watch as he applies the first smear along my cheek. It’s thick and dark, like a tire track.
“Have I been playing in the mud?” I ask with a laugh.
“Sheesh,” Dawson says, scrutinizing the sponge that—in his large hand—looks much smaller suddenly. “What’d I do wrong? You made it look so easy. You’re going to come out looking like you wrestled with a jumbo Sharpie and lost.”
“Here,” I say, smearing it off with a makeup wipe. I cup his hand and rotate the sponge so we have a fresh edge. “When you apply the product, go nice and easy. The smallest dab goes a long way.”
This time, he gently dips it into the small container.
“Then,” I say, reaching for a bristled brush. “Take this and kind of spread it evenly over the surface.”
He tips his head back. “That’s right. I forgot that step.”
After he’s done with that, Dawson lifts it to my face and meets my gaze. “Now what?”
“Gently,” I say. “Feather light. And don’t do all of them the same. Some can be smudges, like along the jaw or brow where we wipe our faces with the back of our hands. The others should look different. Speckled maybe, like this one on your cheek.” I point to it as he checks it in the mirror. “Looks like ash drifted from the fire and grazed your skin.”
When he turns back to me, I lift my eyes to meet his gaze. Talk about fire…staring into those eyes ignites that burning in me.
