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He huffed out a laugh. “You think so?”
“I really do.”
“It’ll be harder to hide if I do that.”
She wasn’t sure whom he was trying to prepare more with his warning. “Guess you’ll have to stay here where no one can find you.”
He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and nodded. “I wish.” Then he stood up, taking her with him. “Let’s do it.”
Inside the bathroom, he swiveled his head right and left in the mirror. “I need to trim it down.”
Bronte opened the cabinet but only came up with small nail scissors. “I assume these won’t do?”
“Don’t you have scissors with all your craft stuff?”
“Oh yeah. Hold on.” She skipped out to the guest room and returned with a pair of scissors, stopping short in the door.
Chris had taken off his shirt, displaying remarkably tanned skinned for the middle of winter, his chest sprinkled with dark hair. Since he’d started his new two-hours-a-day workout regimen in hopes of attaining the role of Roy in The Gilded Cage, he’d lost some of the so-called “gut” he’d said he’d gained from months of doing nothing. Bronte didn’t mind his soft stomach, like he didn’t mind all her bony, hard edges. Although, she didn’t mind his new contoured muscle look either.
And he’d caught her ogling him.
“All right?” he asked with a devious grin.
“Mm-hmm. Here.” She handed him the scissors and sat sideways on the toilet lid, legs crossed with her chin propped in her hand to watch him. He got to work, clipping off chunks of dark-brown hair, and when it was close enough to see the curve of his jaw, he grabbed her shaving cream and razor from the shower.
“Flirty mango. This is what makes your legs smell so good?” He didn’t wait for her answer. “Guess it’ll have to do.” He carelessly smeared it all over the lower half of his face and neck, then slowly dragged her razor down his cheek, revealing an inch of skin at a time. Once finished, he rinsed off, splashing water everywhere, and she handed him a towel.
“So that’s what your face looks like.” His high cheekbones stood out against the hollow below them, and now that he wasn’t covered in so much hair, his mouth seemed even bigger, dark pink with a permanently pouty bottom lip. A shallow cleft in his chin and slightly bumpy nose gave him a classic sort of look that belonged in black-and-white movies.
“Yeah,” she said, getting up, “you’ll have to stay here forever.” Then she sucked that bottom lip between her own. She traced her fingers over the skin of his newly exposed face.
He let out a satisfied hum and pressed her back against the sink, dropping his mouth down to her neck, sucking and licking from her ear to her collarbone.
“You’re so smooth,” she said. “It feels so good.”
His eyes darted up, sparking with fire. “Should we see where else it feels good?”
* * *
Two daysafter spending Christmas with Bronte and her family, Chris packed up his new suitcase, a gift from Pattie and Steve to replace his duffel bag. It was filled with newly acquired button-downs from Bronte. Naturally, she’d gone practical for Christmas and had given him clothes. Though, she did surprise him with a nice photo shoot, where she wore nothing except one of those new shirts. In return, he also had a two-part gift for her. The first, a new e-reader to replace the one she’d had that was on its last legs, and he went old-school for the second one, spending hours putting together a playlist for her.
He’d thought he was being all slick and romantic, and he’d waited until they were alone in her apartment to send her the link to the music. She grinned in delight. “Aw, like in seventh grade.”
“Middle school gift for the middle school teacher.”
Lying on her bed, she had flipped through the list on her phone, all songs that reminded him of her and of their time together. He had always loved to play guitar, and if he were a more talented musician—despite that Bronte thought he was phenomenal—he would have tried to write her a song. Instead, he let others do the talking for him.
He had included her favorites, like Hozier, Elton John, and Prince, and he’d sung each song into her skin as he removed articles of her clothing, touching and teasing her with kisses until she was completely naked and panting under him.
And then he’d done exactly what Bronte suggested. He’d hid in her bed until he had to reluctantly disentangle himself from her when the alarm went off, signaling he absolutely had to leave. No more “only fifteen more minutes.”
“Good luck,” she said when he leaned down for a kiss. She was still wrapped up in the sheets, but the tattoo on her hip was out, and he was tempted to sink back to the mattress to lick it. With a knowing smile, she pushed him away. “Get out. Go. Go get your close-up. I’ll still be here when you get back.”
Her words provided him the hope and anticipation he required to leave, and he gave her one last kiss before walking away.
Chris arrived in New York City over three hours later when it should have taken only two, thanks to rush-hour traffic and a driver slower than Bronte behind the wheel. He checked in to the Bowery Hotel and was met by name by the concierge, who swiftly led him up to his room, a suite with soaring ceilings, industrial furniture, and dark hardwood floors.
The hotel had sent a basket of fruit and champagne, but he let it sit on the living room table in exchange for a shower and change of clothes. He still smelled like Bronte, and even though he didn’t mind, he thought he should look a bit rested for his dinner meeting.
