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Not saying a word, he leans over, grabs the towels from the concrete, and wraps an arm around my knees.
It takes me a moment to realize the world is upside down.
“Jake,” I scream. “Put. Me. Down.”
“You’re the bane of my existence,” he growls, but I can hear the obvious amusement in his tone. “And you’re fired.”
My scream has gained us some spectators. They’re gawking at us from the front door as Jake strides to the parking lot. I can’t make out which women are currently giggling at our show because the world is bobbing up and down.
“You can’t fire me,” I bite back, flailing on his shoulder as his muscles dig into my stomach.
“Then I’ll have Nora fire you.”
“Nora loves me. Now put me down.”
“No.”
My eyes fall to his perfectly sculpted ass.
Payback.
I slap both hands against his slacks, pressing hard, and making sure I leave my painted handprints on either ass cheek.
He stills.
I try to look up to see his reaction, but I don’t have the energy.
“I do love finger painting,” I fume.
“Fucking infuriating.” And there are some more choice words as he walks again.
I strain my neck to look back at the shelter. “Bye, ladies,” I shout. “See you on Monday. Enjoy the rest of your weekend.”
Their laughing is still echoing in the air as I hear a car door open, and I’m thrown onto the towel-covered seat with a thud. He lays the towel on his side and gets in.
Turning to me when I open my mouth, he pinches my lips together. “So much prettier when this is shut.”
“Asshole,” I mumble against his fingers.
I want to open my mouth and fill the silence on our drive back to my house, but my skin is still stinging from his touch, and the heaviness between my legs is distracting. Instead, I keep my arms crossed, and say a silent thank you when he turns on the radio.
Pulling into my driveway, I get out without uttering a word. I lean in before leaving. He’s hysterical. Perfectly put together, yet destroyed in paint.
And somehow, he’s more handsome than he was when he picked me up.
It’s not fair.
My laugh finally wins. I can’t allow him to have the last word. “Blue really is your color.” I shut the door, and don’t look back.
He doesn’t leave until I’m inside and he sees the lights come on.
An hour later, when my doorbell rings, I’m freshly showered, back to looking like myself, and not a cartoon character.
Opening the door, my stomach immediately grumbles as the smell of food wafts in the air.
I was too busy today and forgot to eat.
The young woman holds out a bag. “Claire Russell?”
