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Harlow laughed, rising from the table to brush past me to open the fridge door. The container in her hand did indeed hold an alarming amount of the green crap. Her eyes glittered as she approached, and once she’d removed the cap, she dipped her finger inside and held it up toward me.
“Harlow,” I said slowly.
“Oh, come on.” She arched an eyebrow. “Scared of a little soft skin?”
A growling noise came from deep in my throat, but she merely smiled and took a few more steps, erasing the distance between us. She rolled up onto the balls of her feet, watching my eyes closely.
Through the mask on her face, her dimple appeared, and I knew I was a fucking goner.
“Don’t get it in my beard,” I warned.
“I won’t.” When she touched the tip of her finger to the bridge of my nose, the cold sensation made me pull in a quick breath, which deepened her smile. “See? Feels pretty nice.”
I didn’t even dare breathe because, standing this close, I could smell her—something clean and fruity. Or maybe it was the shit she was putting on my face.
Harlow spread it gently over my nose and got one more dollop for my cheeks. She rolled her lips together, fighting a laugh as she pulled away. “You look so handsome. We should really take a picture so we don’t ever forget this memory.”
“I will kick you out so fast, sparky.”
Her laugh was light and amused, and when she stepped toward the fridge again, I finally let out a loaded exhale.
Sage poked at her forehead. “Will my skin turn green if it sits for too long?”
“Highly doubtful.” Harlow leaned her face into the kitchen sink and cupped water into her hands, scrubbing at her face until the green was gone. Blindly, she reached for some paper towels, and I took pity, tearing off a few squares and setting them in her hand so she could dry her face.
When she finished patting her skin dry, her eyes lingered on my face, and she laughed again.
“When can I wash this off?” I asked, my eyes never leaving hers.
“Soon.”
Damn, that smile would be the death of me, I just knew it.
Sage bumped past me. “My turn.”
When she was finished scrubbing her face, Harlow helped her dry her face, then gave me a long-suffering sigh. “Fine, go ahead.”
The green washed off easily, and as I dried my face, I watched her walk back to her seat at the table.
Harlow was wearing those short fucking shorts again. An early November burst of above-average temps had her dressing like it was in the eighties, not the sixties. Today, her T-shirt was a faded purple, the sleeves cut off, and the NYU logo in white across her chest. Her hair was piled on top of her head, anchored in place with a pencil, and I tried not to stare at it because I wanted to figure out how the fuck that worked.
Earlier in the day, she and Sage had done some cleaning around the house even though I’d told her that wasn’t necessary. But apparently, we had a chore chart now. It was on the side of the fridge, held up by a magnet of the Statue of Liberty, and the two of them had taken the bulk of it.
I tapped it when they restarted their Uno game. “Do I get a sticker if I clean my toilet?”
Harlow arched an eyebrow. “No. Just a metaphorical pat on the back.”
“I get money if I clean mine,” Sage piped up. “I’d rather scrub toilets than fold laundry.”
“Same, kid,” I muttered.
“At least you’re folding your own laundry,” she continued, eyes on the cards in her hand. “Mom’s underwear is all lacy, and I won’t touch it.”
My eyes locked onto Harlow’s face, and I watched with unbridled fascination as she refused to look in my direction, color crawling up the length of her neck and blooming on her cheeks. The color was a spectacular shade of pink.
“That so?” I asked. It was nothing short of a miracle that my voice came out so smoothly, because there was a violent sort of splitting in my head, the immediate flash of long legs and colored lace making my temples throb.
Fuck, maybe I needed to get laid. It had been too long. Far too long.
