Before I know it, I’m laughing, and she’s not even finished.
“Seriously, as an ethnic group, are Cajuns really known for their raging? I don’t think so. All our stereotypes center around music, food, beer, and Boudreaux and Thibodeaux jokes.”
Dios mío,she’s funny when she’s not carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. I laugh until a thought brings me up short.
I’d like to shoulder some of that weight.
The image grips me and won’t let go. Me wrapping an arm around her, wedging a shoulder under that burden she carries around, and giving her some breathing room.
Some laughing room.
And even though I want to, I can’t laugh anymore. I grasp for the first thing that comes to mind. “Are you Cajun?”
She arches a deep red brow. “Do I look Cajun?”
You look angelic.
I hope I hide this thought behind a look of skepticism. “Are we still talking stereotypes? Because if I had to pick, I’d say Irish.”
Her smile gleams. “My mother’s maiden name was Bailey.”
I want to ask if her mother was a redhead like she is, but she looks so happy right now. I don’t want to mess that up.
“DoIlook Cajun?”
This sets her off, and she’s laughing again. “I don’t think either of us makes the cut.”
I chuckle. “I’m too brown, and you’re not brown enough.”
This seems to sober her, and she straightens up, covering her mouth. “I don’t think—I didn’t mean—”
I shake my head to stop her. “I know I’m brown. It’s not a secret,” I tease, wanting her to know she’s done nothing to offend me. In demonstration, I hold out my forearm just inches away from her lily-white hand. “Pretty obvious.”
As usual, she has on a long-sleeved T-shirt under her scrubs. Without a word, she pulls up the sleeve and lines up her forearm next to mine. Not touching, but close. The difference is crazy. Like whole milk next to maple syrup.
The blonde peach fuzz rises from her skin, invisible except for where the light hits it just right. It looks crazy soft. Because I have to, I lean in and let the length of my arm touch hers. I feel those light hairs whisper against my skin, and I hold my breath so I can’t make a sound. Because she doesn’t pull away. Because her skin on mine looks better than anything I’ve seen in a long time. Because itfeelsbetter too.
“Bronze,” she says, her voice hoarse and almost inaudible beneath the whir of the giant fan. I glance up to find her gaze fixed on our arms, her lashes low.
“What?” And because I’ve been holding my breath, I sound choked, thirsty.
“It isn’t brown,” she says, almost absently. “It’s bronze.” And the way she says it makes me think bronze is her very favorite color.
I swallow, heat erupting over every inch of my skin. My bronze skin.
God, I want to touch her. All over.
She’s. A. Client. No. Touching.
But before I can pull my arm away and break our connection, she wraps her other hand around my wrist, making me go stock still.
Millie looks up into my eyes, and I realize that everything—absolutely everything—has changed. I don’t know how. I don’t know when. But the look in her blue eyes—afraid, but hopeful—tells me all my rules are no good here.
“Is this okay?” she asks, her voice shaky.
Dios mío.She’s asking permission to touchme.
And any quality I had resembling control—restraint, civility, sanity—snaps. My arm in her grip hooks low around her back. My left hand cups the back of her head before bringing her mouth to mine, and I groan louder than the giant fan.
