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Barrett forked over his cellphone and asked our artists to snap photos of us. Later on he took a few himself, including one of me eating an ice-cream cone.
“I’m so full, I’m no longer buzzed. What a waste of a designated driver.” I’m talking to fill the tense air.
Barrett’s eyes are closed, his reddish-brown lashes shadowing his cheeks, his skin pink from my scrubbing. He looks like a boy, save for the prominent stubble and masculine angle of his jaw. He’s almost painfully gorgeous.
“All done.” My voice is tight with lust, the innocuous act of removing face paint somehow nearly as sensual as removing clothing. When his eyes open, I fall into them like pools. I toss the used towelettes into the wastebasket.
“Anything else?” I clear my throat, suddenly and strangely nervous.
“Your turn.” We trade places and he carefully swipes the paint from my cheeks, forehead, and chin, his eyebrows lowered in concentration. I enjoy the pampering, and the attention.
When he’s through, I slowly open my eyes, chin elevated. “Thanks, Fox.”
“You’re welcome, Kitty Cat.” He looks at my mouth with a longing I feel but doesn’t kiss me. I can tell he’s about to leave. I don’t want him to, but it’s the best idea for both of us... Isn’t it?
I don’t know anymore.
“I’m going to go,” he says, those four words as distancing as they sound.
“Can I drop you at home?”
“You’re already home, honey. I’m not making you go out.”
“Well, you shouldn’t go out, either. It’ll take too long to get a car,” I argue and then desperately add, “Hey, we could brainstorm on what we’ll be writing this weekend.”
At that suggestion he grows visibly tired, his shoulders slumping. “No thanks.”
“Guess I’m the workaholic out of the two of us, huh?”
“Depends on what kind of work you’re talking about.” He offers a palm and helps me stand, then he leads me through the bedroom and (I’m guessing) to the front door.
With each step we grow closer and closer to him walking out. I’m racking my brain for an excuse to keep him here. The why doesn’t matter any longer. I’m not interested in whys, only my body’s needs.
“It’s our third date. Technically. If you count both golf dates as one,” I say.
He pauses mere feet from the exit and raises his eyebrows.
“How shall we write that it ended? With face paint removal?” I take a tentative step closer to him and then another. “Or a kiss goodnight?”
His eyes darken to navy, his pupils growing with interest. His fingers feed into my hair, tearing down my ponytail and coming out with the elastic. He doesn’t take his eyes off mine as he drops the band on the floor. His lips hitch with interest and, I hope, in surrender.
He arranges my hair over my shoulders, leaving it in a big wavy mess around my face. My beer buzz has long faded, but my head swims. I might be drunk on Barrett Fox.
I mentally fast-forward past the kiss, the sex, and to the morning after. “This would be a disaster, wouldn’t it?”
“A beautiful disaster,” he murmurs.
“You can sleep on the couch.” I step so close my toes bump his. “Sneak out in the morning. Or you can stay, and we can spend the morning writing our columns.”
“God, woman. You know how to kill a mood, don’t you?” A rocky laugh leaves his chest. I smile up at him, smitten. Then his expression grows serious. Everything around us crumbles to dust when he lowers his lips to mine.
The kiss is sweet. Soft. Then hard and needy.
His fingers return to my hair, sending shivers down my spine. I stand on my toes, claw at his shoulders. My will is weakened from the long day, from hearing him sing, and by the gentle way he has when he’s not playing famous.
The hand in my hair grips a fistful and he tips my head back so that I’m looking up at his shadowed face. “I’m not sleeping with you tonight, Kitty Cat.”
“Why not?” I whine.
