“Sorry. I’ll get you a new one.” I ran a hand over my scruffy jaw. “I didn’t shave today. Or yesterday.”
“Too late to worry about that now.”
I fussed with my hair a little and caught her smirking in the mirror. “What?”
“You’re so vain about your hair.”
“I am not.” But I totally was. If she wasn’t standing right there, I’d have gotten my blow dryer out and given it a little more life.
“You so are. I bet you have more hair products than I do.” She nodded at the vanity cupboards. “Open that.”
“No.”
She elbowed me aside and opened one door, then burst out laughing. “My God! You have more hair products than Winnie and me put together! Is that mousse?”
“Enough.” I grabbed her from behind and dragged her out of the bathroom. “We have to go. You’re in a hurry, remember? Go put your boots back on.”
But I didn’t let go of her right away. I was bigger and stronger and felt like I had to take her down a notch by showing it. Plus, not gonna lie, her hair smelled amazing—like summer at the beach. I almost asked her what shampoo she used.
She tugged at my arms. “Let go of me, you big umbrella-bashing bully.”
I held on a couple seconds longer than necessary, then released her. Back in the bathroom, I shut the door, used it, and washed my hands. Figuring she’d hear the blow dryer if I turned it on, I settled for messing with my hair with my fingers. After a quick spray of cologne, I tossed a couple products in my bag, hid them beneath my jeans and sweater, and zipped it back up.
When I opened the door, she was standing right there, a grin on her face. “Did you pack the mousse? The blizzard might flatten your ’do.”
“Go,” I barked, giving her a gentle nudge with my bag. “We’re going to be late.”
I followed her out, locked the door, and popped the hatch on my SUV. The temperature was dropping quickly, and the wind had picked up. The flurries that had been gently drifting from the sky when we’d left Abelard were blowing sideways. I tossed my bag in the back, and a few minutes later, we were on the highway again.
“It’s like we’re on a romantic little road trip,” I said as we headed north.
“No, it isn’t—it’s a work event.” She reached over and poked my shoulder. “My work event. You’re going to stay in the background, remember?”
“So, like, don’t take my pants off and dance on the table?”
“I would murder you with a corkscrew. Then I’d flatten your hair in your coffin.”
“Damn. I’ll stay out of your way.”
“Thank you.” A few minutes later, she sniffed. “What is that?”
“What is what?”
“That smell.” She leaned toward me, nearly putting her face in my neck. “Did you put cologne on?”
“I forget,” I lied, unnerved at the way my pulse quickened with her lips so close to my skin. “I might have.”
She laughed. “Why?”
“I don’t know. I like to smell nice.”
She inhaled once more, then settled back in her seat. “It does smell nice.”
I glanced at her, surprised at the rare compliment. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Focusing on the road again, and the snow swirling across the pavement, I felt warm beneath my coat as I thought about my hands on her body in the dark.
FOUR
ELLIE
Jesus, he smelled good.
I’d always had a really sensitive sense of smell—and it definitely helped me professionally—but right now I wished I could turn it off.
The scent of him was filling my head and doing pleasant but worrisome things to my body . . . warming my skin, stirring my insides, quickening my pulse. It was giving me ideas I didn’t want, making me wonder things I had no business wondering about—like what kind of kisser he was or what he looked like naked or whether he was greedy or generous in bed.
A guy like Gianni, who knew how hot he was and had never lacked for female attention, would probably be a selfish lover, right? Or would his ego demand that he made sure a woman never left his bed unsatisfied? As puffed up as he was, I’d never really heard him brag about the size of his dick or how many notches he had on his bedpost. He made a lot of dirty jokes and he was a relentless flirt, but he didn’t boast about his sexual conquests.
Before I could stop myself, I glanced over at his crotch. One of his hands was resting on his thigh, and I got distracted by it. His thick wrist was hidden inside the sleeve of his wool coat, but I’d stolen enough glances in the past few months to know what it looked like. The back of his hand had visible veins, and he kept his fingernails short and clean. His fingers were long, not too skinny and not too thick, and they gave his hands a sort of elegance that I secretly admired sometimes while he was plying a knife or kneading some dough or tossing a skillet. He had strong hands, but they were dexterous too. Graceful. Artistic.