She jabs a finger at the pillow. “Cross that pillow, and I’ll cross your face with my foot.”
“So that’s your kink.”
I prop myself up, close enough that heat is rolling off her in waves(I know, I’m pushing it).The groan she makes belongs in a nature documentary.
“Easy,” I say, backing down. “Scout’s honor, I’ll be good.”
“Oh, spare me, Hartwell. You couldn’t behave if your life depended on it.”
I smirk.Fuck,Ican’thelpit.
If I’m lucky, it’ll hide the struggle I’m dealing with: the way my hands itch to reach for her again.
Ivy plows through her suitcase and extracts a makeup bag so large it could pass for a carry-on. She sets it on the dresser and starts unpacking(or is she prepping for open-heart surgery?).I catch mascara, brushes, and some tiny tubes of goo arranged by height.Naturally, she’s got a system.
“We leave in twenty minutes.” She uncaps a mascara wand and leans toward the mirror. “Everything has to be checked. If equipment doesn’t pass inspection three times, it doesn’t go near that Gala.”
“Make it four. I don’t trust odd numbers.”
She doesn’t dignify that.
I rummage in my bag and find my tuxedo shirt, neatly folded, of course, byher. Socks are matched, cords wrapped like little presents, and everything has a home. I give the bag a hard shake, restoring it to its natural state.
Grabbing the hem of my current shirt, I pull it over my head. The air is cool against my chest. I toss the tuxedo shirt over the chair back and turn to the mirror.
That’s when I catch Ivy, mascara wand raised and frozen mid-sweep, eyeing my chest.
Not glancing, not peeking. Eyes locked and loaded. On me.
I pick up the tuxedo shirt.
Set it back down.
Quick inspection. Rotate the shoulder. Tilt the jaw. Check my other good side. Run my fingers through my hair. Can’t disappoint the audience.
“Put a shirt on!”
“Just finishing my process.”
“Pretending you’re in a fitness infomercial?”
“Can’t rush my stubble check.” I rub my jaw. “You’ve stopped blinking, Stopwatch… should I take that as a compliment?”
I flex my forearms and don’t miss her quickly bite her bottom lip.
“You’re blocking my line of sight.” She caps her mascara wand.
“Uh-huh.”
Her eyes find mine in the mirror. One second. Two seconds. Three—
She breaks first.
I win.
She beelines for her suitcase, and I yank my shirt on. I button it one slow notch at a time, not looking up, pretending I don’t feel her stare burning into my chest.
I rifle through my bag, regretting the snow globe shake earlier. Of course the cufflinks vanished into the abyss.
