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“What is it then?” I ask, turning toward the refrigerator before she sees my boner. I grit my teeth and start to rearrange my canned nutrition shakes.
“It’s a gas guzzler,” she says, coming to stand on the other side of the refrigerator door. I train my eyes on the label of one of the shakes, because I can feel her eyes on me. She’s so damn close, her gaze burns.
“Do you know the miles per gallon?” she asks.
I reach in and get two water bottles out, and I think of checkers. That’s all it takes to kill my boner, so I’m safe to turn around. “You really wanna know?”
“I’m not sure. Do I not?”
I tug the sleeve of her shirt. “Are you a tree-hugger, Cleo baby?”
“Don’t call me that.” Pink spots bloom on her cheeks.
I grin. “What—Cleo baby?”
“Yes.” She takes a step away from me. I step with her. She leans against the countertop, right in front of the sink. I come in close, so close our hips are almost touching.
I’m still grinning. “You don’t like it?”
“It’s... I don’t know.” She fusses with her hair. “It makes me feel like I’m... being teased.”
I rub my thumb along her smooth jaw, smirking because I can’t help myself. “Cleo baby?” I tilt my head at her. “That makes you feel teased?”
She leans back. “You are teasing me—right now. Don’t act like you aren’t,” she says indignantly.
“You never answered me. About the trees.”
She leans back toward me with reluctance on her face. I could step back to give her space, but where’s the fun in that? I know my breath smells good because I chewed a bunch of Big Red after my run earlier this morning.
I rub my fingers over the hemline of her tie-dyed shirt. “You look cute in tie-dye, Cleo baby. Like you belong in California with me, hugging redwoods.”
Her cheeks are even redder than before. I’m surprised, and irrationally charmed.
“I’m getting ‘The Lorax’ on my ankle next,” she says, and then presses her lips tightly together to hide a smile she wants to beam at me.
That makes me laugh. I don’t know why I find it so damn funny: that smug little smile she’s trying to hide, and the thought of that damned mustached Lorax on Cleo’s little ankle.
“Dr. Seuss.” She shrugs, her eyes alight, as if my amusement has infected her. “I’m his number one fan girl.”
I give her a grin, because fuck it, I can’t help myself. I notice a glint of something silver at her throat and pull a necklace out of her shirt. I see a small sloth hanging from the chain and lose my grin.
I guess my face must show my feelings, because Cleo’s eyes widen in response to what she thinks is disapproval. “Are you hating on my sloth necklace?”
“Hell no.” I fake a quick smile for her. “I’m a lover of the sloth.” I turn toward the pantry but I slide a glance her way. She’s folded her arms and is leaning against the refrigerator, looking skeptical.
“Have you ever heard of Save the Sloths International?” I ask. She
frowns as I step into the pantry, looking for some shit for us to eat. “I’m one of its biggest donors. Same money that bought the Escalade—” I stick my head out, giving Cleo my most earnest look—“I’ll have you know, it saved three sloths.”
She steps toward me. “What kind of sloths?”
“The slow, tree-dwelling kind.”
“Sloths that live in... ?”
“Endangered locations,” I tell her. “Much of South America is being pruned by... well, you know—Mr. O’Hare.”
Her mouth drops open and her eyes widen. The shocked look quickly morphs into a smile. “You’ve read ‘The Lorax?’”
