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That was uncalled for. I lifted the smooth, wooden-handled powder brush. “Oh yeah, watch out for this super dangerous weapon. Don’t look. I need to quickly whittle it into a shiv.”
I selected the right color for his skin and stepped forward. He leaned back a little, but there was amusement glittering in his eyes.
“Can I please touch your face?” His perfect, better-in-real-life-than-in-the-movies face.
“What, nosirtoday?”
Warmth bled up my cheeks. So, he’d noticed that then. “No, sir.”
“By all means.” Rhett shook his head slightly, as if he couldn’t believe I was really standing in front of him right now. Well, bud, the feeling was mutual.
But I still had a job to do.
I put the brush down and dipped a sponge in the color, then dabbed a little on his cheek. It was a nearly perfect color, but not quite the right tone. It took a quick second to wipe his cheek clean again and pat it dry, and I tried another color. Perfect.
My heart skipped radically in my chest while I worked, my blessed sponges blotting color over Rhett Myers’s skin. His breath tickled the back of my hand, and awareness coursed through me. The last time I saw this guy—before our Indian-food mix-up—was on my television at home. He breathed again, and I felt the warm air wash down my wrist. Welp, I was never going to wash my right hand now that it was coated in Rhett particles.
“You look angry,” he muttered, his deep voice clear in the empty room.
I stilled, my hand hovering just before reaching his skin again. “I’m not.”
“Your eyebrows are bunching together like you’re mad at my nose.”
How dare he? I could never be upset at his perfect, straight nose. “Do you mean to say I look focused? You want your face to look good for the show, right?” As if it didn’t already. The makeup was pointless. This man was flawless without it.
“I definitely don’t want it to look bad.”
I gave him a patient smile. “Then let me do my job, and it won’t be shiny or off-colored on camera.” It was hard enough to breathe standing in front of the man’s knees. A swift breeze could push me forward, and I’d fall right in his lap. Too bad we were inside and lacking in wind. I glanced around quickly but didn’t see a window.
“Do you prefer your clients not to talk?” he asked.
Hecould talk to me all day. “It depends. Sometimes talking complicates things.”
He looked confused.
“It’s harder to apply makeup to moving faces.”
“Noted.”
“Well, not you. Your makeup is basic. That mostly applies to smaller details, like eyebrows or eyeliner.”
“I’m pretty sure I’ve never been called basic before.”
Because he wasn’t basic, which he knew very well. I didn’t feel the need to pump up his ego more. I just wanted to bask in it.
Rhett watched me continue to apply his makeup. Like, actually watched me. His clear, blue eyes shifted, following my hand when it dipped in the foundation, and then his gaze slid to my face when I worked. Concentration was a joke. I could hardly stay upright on my wobbly knees.
“So, you can’t handle your spice?” he asked.
“Nope, I’m weak.” I avoided his gaze. I would never be able to move on to his hair if he kept distracting me. “Did you enjoy your cold tikka masala?”
“It wasn’t cold.”
I frowned. “I didn’t have a microwave. Did you?”
“I had a whole kitchen. If I hadn’t been so worried you were a stalker, I would have invited you up to heat yours too.”
I leaned back again. I hadn’t had this chatty of a client since that six-year-old sat in my chair last month. “You’re worse than a child,” I muttered, going for his cheekbones again. Swipe, swipe, dab, dab, dab.
