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As if the proximity wasn't bad enough. Did he have to do that? To taunt her with the mintiness of his breath? To force her to stay calm when all she wanted to do was sag beneath his caress like some kind of swooning 1920's move star?
The touching, the taunting, seemed like it went on forever and still when it stopped and he said, "Okay. You can open 'em," she felt completely bereft.
With a deep breath, she blinked open to gaze at her reflection.
And just like that, all her tension gave way to racking, uproarious laughter.
She looked as though he'd tried to paint her like some kind of cartoon grim reaper, all deep black circles around her eyes and pale white skin.
Reaching for some tissues, she said, "You should stick to baseball."
For a moment he feigned insult, but the veneer was thin at best. After a second, a broad, white smile split his face and he speared a hand through his disheveled brown hair.
"I assure you, I have no idea what you're talking about."
She wiped at the monstrosity of his work until only a shadow of pale grey coated her lids. "Good enough."
After slathering on some gloss to complete the look, she rubbed her lips together and then pouted into the mirror to ensure she'd covered all her bases. Her father might not have taught her much about how to be a lady, but make-up was one lesson he'd gotten down pat.
What he hadn't taught her was how to pretend she didn’t notice when men stared at her mouth. Like Logan was doing now.
She caught his gaze in the mirror, but with a cough he sprung from his stool and held out a hand. "Time for dinner?" he asked.
She glanced at his outstretched palm, but before she could take it, he pulled it away and rustled in their mounds of shopping bags.
"Don't tell me it's something else," she said.
"No, but you've got to put the heels on." He handed her the gold, strappy contraptions.
What was so wrong with wearing her sneakers? They were durable, waterproof, and required no toenail painting whatsoever. They were the every man's shoe.
Heels? They were more like nature's way of letting women know that someone out there hated them and that the journey through life was going to be long, arduous, and painful.
Still, she took them from his grasp and configured them until she was relatively certain she'd secured it on her foot...as far as she could tell, anyway.
Logan held out his palm again and she steeled herself before taking it in her own and allowing him to help her from her seat.
From the first step, she was a natural.
If, for example, the definition of “natural” was for her ankle to quirk to the side like a drunken baby deer and fall sprawling to the floor.
If that was what being a natural meant, she'd totally nailed it.
If not...well, not so much.
"You okay there, champ?" Logan smiled and pulled her to her feet, graciously not drawing attention to the fact that he'd probably just seen the fabric that was currently housing her nether regions.
"I'm totally cool." Her ankle popped to the side again, but this time Logan hooked his arm around hers and nestled her to his side.
As if being the world's worst runway model wasn't bad enough, now she had to worry about whether he could hear her heart pounding. When things went from bad to worse, they seriously didn't waste time.
"We're probably going to have to go to a nearby restaurant." He laughed.
She nodded. "Good call."
She leaned on him as they walked a short way down the street. Luckily, downtown San Diego was an easy place to find decent food, so that was one worry she could waylay. Harder was the fact that, as much as she tried to keep Logan at arm's length, he was quickly sneaking through her chinks of armor.
After he'd initially finished his joking, he'd helped her to manage on her heels. Hell, he'd even encouraged her, as if she were a kid who'd finally gotten her training wheels removed. After a couple of blocks, she'd nearly gotten the hang of it. Her ankle only occasionally protested and, if someone was squinting while looking at her from really, really far away, she might have even looked normal.
