“You really did a number on yourself. There are… a lot.”
I swear I can hear him wince.
I glare at him over my shoulder, refusing to answer that question with any words. He grins back at me, and it’s hard to maintain my frown because thisisobjectively kind of funny.
Still, I turn back to analyzing the counter. It has brown veining in it, like it was trying to imitate marble while keeping to a very seventies color scheme. Hell, even the oven and fridge are a yellow-gold color.
Silence stretches between us as he moves, assessing the damage or coming up with a plan of attack. All I can hear is the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock that sits above the woodburning fireplace in the small adjoining living room.
“Okay, can I touch you now?”
My heart stutters in my chest at the tenderness and respect in his voice. For a guy who was just joking about bending me over, he has pivoted into dutiful territory very quickly.
“Y-yeah. That’s fine.” I nod as I respond, but I don’t risk looking back at him.
“Okay, I’m going to start down here.” He presses a single finger to my upper thigh to demonstrate the location. “And then I’ll work my way up. But I’ll let you know. I might have to… lift the fabric a bit to get at a few of them.”
“Sure. Whatever,” I say. Because what do I care? Any shred of pride I had has dissolved into this retro vinyl countertop.
This hideous mustard tone is officially the shade of humiliation.
And all that’s left for me to do is grin and bear it.
CHAPTER 13
Emmett
JULIA IS EMBARRASSED.It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure that much out.
A pink flush spreads across the skin on her back, and she’s holding her neck straight and stiff. She’s pretending these hideous mustard-colored countertops are the most interesting thing she’s ever seen just to avoid looking up at me.
“You got performance anxiety or something, Bush? All that talk about seeing so many women’s asses, and you’re standing there like a starstruck virgin.”
She’s passing this off as a joke, but there’s an edge to her tone. I grimace as I reach over her body and swipe the tweezers off the counter, wondering how the hell I’m going to make this less uncomfortable for her.
“Brandt. My last name is Brandt,” I mutter again as I place my hand on one hip to steady her.
She scoffs, giving her head a subtle shake. “Too personal, remember?”
One corner of my mouth tugs up as I echo her earlier sentiment back to her. “I’m about to pull prickles out of your ass, so I think we might really be past the point of worrying about what’s personal.”
I pull out the first spine before she can respond. She hisses out a breath, and all I can think is that I’d like to take a blowtorch to Prickle Point and nuke all those cactuses for doing this to her.
I peek up and watch her drop her head lower. I’m not sure if it’s pain or shame that has her hanging her head. All I know is that her distress unsettles me.
My brain turns over conversation starters as I pluck at the prickles in the back of her thighs, but nothing seems quite right.
The weather? Weekend plans? Her brother?
All stupid.
And so, in a moment of desperate confusion, my mouth moves before my brain has a chance to intervene.
“Legally, my name is Emmett Brandt. Not Emmett Bush.”
Her head lifts a couple of inches, and she goes still. “I’ve only ever heard you called Emmett Bush.”
I continue working on the prickles, internally berating myself for bringing this up just to make this moment easier. She’s silent for long enough that hope surges behind my ribs.
