“Put those suggestive eyebrows down this instant, young man.”
His grin is pure mischief.
“Okay, so you’re nottechnicallylate, but something told me you’re the kind of girl who likes to be early. When you weren’t, it made me wonder if you were okay.”
“I have an hour to get ready,” I say. “The meetings just ended.”
“The meetings ended forty-eight minutes ago. Cocktail hour starts in twelve minutes.”
“WHAT? I need to shower! My hair! My makeup!”
“You look great!”
“What do you know?” I yell, my back to him. Sprinting to my room, I pull a hair tie from around my wrist and put my hair up so it won’t get wet. In the bathroom with the doorfirmlylocked, I throw my clothes off and hop into the shower, soaping down with the speed of a superhero. My legs are stubbly, but no one’s going to be touching them, and if anyone gets his face close enough to tell, I’ll kick it.
I dry off and drop my towel on the ground in front of the mirror.
I pull my dry-shampooed hair up into a sleek ponytail and then spin it around in an equally sleek bun. Most women will know this is a twenty second hairstyle, but something tells me my boss—who wore Crocs today with her pantsuit—isn’t one to care.
My makeup has mostly cracked from the intense dryness, but I don’t have time to wash my face. So I use a face mist, pat it, and then add a quick extra coat of mascara, because I love my eyelashes, but I look like a middle schooler without makeup. So I make them extra dark and thick. It’s a good thing I dyed my naturally blonde eyebrows before I left for Arizona. I use an eyeliner stick to add a quick and dirty smoky effect that’ll do thejob. I don’t know how to contour, but I use a highlighter stick on the bridge and tip of my nose, and I’ll use my lipstick as blush in the elevator on the way down. I throw on my little black cocktail dress and slip into a pair of shimmery heels. With a minute to spare, I run out of the room.
And smack into Coop’s rock hard chest.
“Why are you still here?” I say, rubbing my chin.
“Whoa,” he says at the same time, putting his hands on my shoulders. The fitted black dress has a sweetheart neckline and a sheer mesh top, so even though he’s technically touching fabric, it also feels like he’s touching skin.
My irritation flares hotter. And … less like irritation.
No.
Notlesslike irritation. Exactly like irritation.
I march past him, holding my phone and lipstick, but he’s standing still. I go back five steps, grab his hand, and tug. “What are you doing?”
“I, uh—” He shakes his head. “Nothing.” I press the elevator button and catch his reflection. He’s taking me in.
A lot.
I duck my head to keep back a smile.
We step on to the elevator, and I dot lipstick on my cheekbones and blend it in. Thank goodness this elevator is so shiny.
“That was the fastest transformation I’ve ever seen,” Coop says. “And you look way hotter than Clark Kent.”
“Oh, stop.” I glare at him for effect. “Don’t you dare badmouth Henry Cavill in my presence.”
He grins, and for a second, my heart leaps. No, the elevator stopped on the first floor, and it mademeleap. That’s all that was.
We walk together toward the ballroom, where the cocktail hour and dinner will be, and I realize I forgot something.
“Shoot,” I whisper.
“Everything okay?” he asks.
“I forgot my clutch. Walking around with lipstick and a phone in my hands isn’t quite the vibe I was going for.”
“Use my pockets.”
