I grab her hand as she tries to turn to leave. “It was funny, in a very stressful I-don’t-want-to-be-alone-with-this-drunk-girl-wanting-to-get-naked way.”
When I realize she’s not leaving, I let go of her hand. She clears her throat and sips from her cup, watching me carefully over the cup as it lowers. “Do you need any help today? Emilia banished me from the dance area.”
“Why?”
She kicks out her leg, the darkening purple indicator of bruising spreading across her shin. “I was bored because she’s a control freak and I tried to hurdle the freestanding ballet barres.”
The laugh that rips out of me is so loud I don’t realize it’s me until she starts laughing too. Dragging a hand down my face, I shake it off. “If I let you help me, can you be good?”
“Usually, with the right motivation.”
I sense I shouldn’t ask further, but I can’t help myself. At this point, as much as I don’t want to be, I’m the moth and Aurora is the brightest flame. “What’s enough motivation for you?”
Her teeth sink into her lip again and my brain flashes back to a very different scenario where I watched her do that. “You thinking I’m good.”
I’m going to get burned. “Alright then, grab a paintbrush.”
Aurora has her legs over my shoulders. Again.
This time she’s sitting on them to paint the highest point of the storage shed, but the same inappropriate thoughts remain. My hands cling to her thighs, which are warming my ears, and her hand is intwined in my hair while her other swishes the paintbrush against the wood.
“Have you ever seen Ratatouille?” she asks, running her fingers through my hair again.
It’s hard not to physically react to goosebumps spreading down my body. “Of course I have, why?”
“I feel like the rat.” She tugs on my hair gently. “Should we see if I can make you cook?”
“Excuse you,” I squeeze her thighs playfully and her hand tightens in my hair. “His name is Remy.”
“My apologies, I didn’t realize I was in the presence of a Ratatouille expert. You guys just be out here hiding in plain sight. Okay, I think we’re done up here.”
The shed looks ten times better than it did when we started and, while it probably wasn’t necessary to spend so long working on a random structure, the lack of interruptions has been nice.
“Russ?”
“Yeah?”
“Which bit of your hair do I need to pull for you to let me down?”
“Oh shit, sorry.” I crouch low enough for her to climb off and it’s pathetic that my first instinct is to work out if there’s anything else we can paint together. “You did a great job.”
Her eyes brighten at the praise and, slowly, the tiny pieces of what I know about her are beginning to thread together. “I couldn’t have done it without you. Literally.”
There’s a smudge of brown paint decorating her jawline; I instinctively reach out, thumb rubbing against it, but it doesn’t budge. “You’re so messy.”
“You have no idea,” she says quietly.
Now we’re alone, I want to ask about what she said this morning. I’m curious about why she thinks she needs to work on herself. From the snippets of information she’s shared during the icebreakers we’ve done and our first interaction at the party, it’s hard to believe she’s anything but the confident woman she comes across as. Yeah, she can be a little awkward occasionally, but so can I. The problem I have is that asking questions tends to invite questions back—and that’s something I’d selfishly rather avoid.
Aurora takes my silence for what it is, a closed door, and we both stand on the outside of this thing hanging between us. She drops the paintbrush into the tray and reaches for the hose I was using earlier, pressing the lever down as she points it directly at my chest.
My jaw drops as the cold water drenches me and a surprised laugh bubbles out. The look in her eyes is the exact same as the one she gave me when I found her in our kitchen: mischief.
“Au—” The spray hits me again. “Okay, you asked for it . . .”
It’s more of a squeal than a scream as I close the gap between us with a couple of strides. She tries to cling to the hose, turning her back to me to protect it. Her body is flush against my wet t-shirt, vibrating as she laughs, attempting to fight me off. It’s not hard to grab it from her and point it downward over the top of her head.
“It’s freezing!” she cries, fighting to redirect it at me. “Okay, truce! Truce!”