Let me say that again, louder for the people in the back—Nina’s hands and face move in close proximity to my abs, which happen to be located very near another part of my anatomy that isveryexcited by the prospect of these hands and that mouth getting closer to it.
While I’m practically naked.
With only a teeny, tiny pair of red underwear to cover up any awareness I feel about this scenario.
Dammit, Dread Pirate Roberts! Be cool!
Think of the queen!I urge myself. It’s something my dad used to tell me to do if I started to get, ahem, inconveniently excited. He was talking about Queen Elizabeth, of course, because imagining a grandmotherly figure is supposed to kill your libido. But I can’t help but think ofmyqueen, Daenerys Targaryen, Mother of Dragons, and then I think of Nina wearing one of Daenerys’s outfits, and that definitely isn’t helping my situation at all.
Then, by a pure stroke of luck, something happens that completely deflates any possibility of sexual tension. Oblivious to my distress, Nina dips one of her brushes into some dark brown makeup and begins dabbing it onto my torso. The soft brush tickles my skin.
And I giggle like a schoolgirl.
To be clear, I don’t usually sound like Hello Kitty when I laugh. It must be a combination of my nerves and Nina’s nearness and the whole situation with the underpants. But the sound that comes out of me is not remotely masculine or cool.
We both freeze. Nina looks up at me. I look down at her. I realize this could be the moment I become overcome with awkwardness, because of my wounded masculinity, and get weird and snippy and drive her away.
Instead, I waggle my eyebrows at her.
My eyebrows are independent forces of their own, so I’m not worried about anyone nearby seeing this and thinking I’m flirting. There’s nothing sexy about what I’m doing with my face. I know I look absolutely ridiculous, and I lean into it, hard. “There’s more where that came from, honey britches,” I promise her. “I’m ticklish as hell.”
It’s Nina’s turn to giggle. She’s doing her best to muffle the sound, pressing her lips together tight and inhaling through her nose. I don’t want her to hold it in, though. I want to hear her laugh. So even though it doesn’t take long for me to get used to the sensation of the bristles, I continue to ham it up. Every time she puts her brush on my skin I squeal theatrically. I giggle, manfully. I contract then expand my stomach to make it roll like a beach wave. (Jealous?)
This whole spectacle isn’t just about covering up my embarrassment now. For the first time, it strikes me that I’ve never heard Nina laugh out loud. I’ve seen her smile, but even then it seems like she often tries to subdue her reaction—pressing her lips together, hiding her emotion. On the few occasions I’ve gotten a laugh from her, she’s kept it silent, her shoulders shaking, mouth covered, but no sound coming out.
That isn’t by accident. Someone—and I have a few educated guesses who—has made Nina feel like she shouldn’t make noise. Take up space. Express joy.
Bullshit. Not on my watch.
Despite my best efforts, though, Nina continues to hold in her laugh until she’s finally done sculpting my sweet, sweet abs. As she steps back to check her work, I glance down, too, and am impressed by my own musculature. Damn. If I’d known it was this easy to get ripped, I would have given up onGeekOuta long time ago and just spent my mornings reading graphic novels and eating potato chips.
“Hold on,” I tell her. “It still needs something.”
I quickly squat and pick up the coonskin cap off the ground. Pulling it down firmly onto my head, I strike a muscle man pose and resume rolling my stomach. “What do you think?”
A sharp, loud squawk erupts from Nina’s throat. It sounds like when you’ve let your car sit for too long and you try to get the engine going again—the protesting, whirring sound of a machine left idle too long. Nina claps a hand over her mouth, her eyes darting up to me in horror.
But there’s no need. I’m grinning like a kid on Christmas morning. I got her to laugh, really laugh, and make a goofy noise doing it.
Maybe IamFunny Guy?
Turns out, I don’t hate it.
With color in her cheeks, Nina packs up her supplies. “I better see if Deja needs anything ...”
After one last lingering, charged look at me, she leaves.
I try not to make it too obvious that I’m totally staring after her.
A moment later, I feel a presence at my side. Morrie. He clears his throat. “So, you remember you’re Nate Russell, right?” he says quietly, not looking at me.
I, too, continue to stare straight ahead. “Uh-huh.”
“And your sole focus is on Harmony Miller, and nobody else, correct?”
“Yep.”
“And you shouldn’t be wasting your energy flirting with or even thinking about anyone else, especially not one of our informants?”
