Jesse tasked me with adhering painter’s tape to the baseboards while he applies a coat of pale blue paint to the ceiling. Blue paint is definitely a departure—I normally veer toward neutrals—but Shelby talked me into the color, insisting it would mirror the sky and bring the beauty of the outdoors in.
The reality is that Jesse could be painting the ceiling neon green right now and I probably wouldn’t notice. I’m too distracted by the sight of his triceps, which are currently straining against the tight sleeves of his T-shirt as he sweeps a roller back and forth across the plaster. The hem of his shirt lifts slightly and I bite down on my bottom lip as I study the taut skin of his abdomen. I’m hit with the sudden urge to trace my tongue against the edge of his jeans.
My brain hasn’t flexedthesemuscles in a very long time.
With effort, I manage to tear my eyes away, forcing myself to focus on the task at hand. But it’s impossible, when the memory of the other night is still so fresh. Neither of us has mentioned the kiss, but it fills the room like an entire herd of elephants. I don’t know about Jesse, but I haven’t been able to think of much else since. It took me hours to fall asleep on Saturday night, my body unable to shed the hum of electricity. I can’t remember the last time I felt so alive, so attuned to myself. The ghost of his kiss haunted my lips all night, the memory of his mouth claiming mine playing on repeat.
I sneak another glimpse at him over my shoulder as I seal the final bit of tape, and he catches my eye. His mouth tilts into a tiny smirk and I know he’s caught me staring. The desire in the air is palpable, and I know that he wants me as badly as I want him. But I also suspect that he is first and foremost a professional and that he’s not going to jeopardize his contract by making the first move. Which means the ball is in my court.
It’s bad news for professionalism, because I’m done putting my desires on the back burner. I’ve kept the lid on that pot for too long and now the simmering heat has bubbled to the surface, ready to boil over. It’s time to stop fighting it and just give in.
“I have to admit that I’ve never painted a room before,” I say, rising to my feet. “How exactly does this work?”
Jesse dismounts the ladder in the center of the room and gestures to the fresh coat he’s just applied to the ceiling.
“You start at the top and work your way down. It’s easy once you get the hang of it.”
Swing and a miss. I cross my arms and let out a sigh. Apparently, I need to play it less coy.
“I’m just… worried I’ll mess up. Maybe you can teach me?”
Jesse’s cheeks redden and I can tell he’s finally caught on to my game. But he’s not ready to yield. Not yet.
“I promise you, it’s not that difficult. Even my brother can do it.” There’s a look of amusement in his expression now.
He’s fucking with me, too.
“All right,” I say. “Guess I’ll just…”
I grab a roller and a tray of paint, then step toward the wall in front of me and paint a big, crooked X onto the wall. Having seen how neatly he works, I know this will press a button.
I shoot him a glance over one shoulder, and the smirk immediately melts off his face. With satisfaction, I watch a muscle in his jaw tick.
Got him.
He steps up behind me and closes his hands over mine. It’s the first time I appreciate how huge they are, how easily his fingers can wrap all the way around my wrists. His nose brushes against my hair and he inhales slowly. I drop my head against his shoulder and press myself flush against his chest. His hips flex and I can feel the shape of him straining against his jeans.
I’m desperate to whirl around and devour him. But patience is a virtue here. I’ve set the scene. Now we’re rolling and the timing needs to be just right. We’re only getting one take.
“Okay, show me how it’s done.”
Jesse guides my arms as we dip the roller into the paint, rocking it back and forth a few times to coat it. Then he lifts my arms, dragging them slowly down the wall.
“There you go. Just like that,” he whispers in my ear. “Long, steady strokes, up and down.”
I burst into laughter, then wheel around to face him.
“Stop! You sound like a thirteen-year-old boy.”
“What do you mean? I thought you wanted to learn professional painting. It’s not my fault that you are willfully misinterpreting my directions.” Him messing with me somehow only makes him hotter.
“I’ll show you professional painting.” Then I drag the roller down the front of his shirt.
He stares down at the stripe of blue across his shirt, aghast.
“You did not just do that.”
I giggle. “What do you think of my long and steady stroke?”
