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He clears his throat. “Pen?”
Reaching past him, I open the small drawer in my kitchen where I keep pens and pencils. “Pen.”
He doesn’t say anything, just takes it and starts to draw a line across my thigh. A yelp jumps out of me, which sends the pen zigzagging down the fabric. He gives me an exasperated look. “This is going so well, with you wiggling.”
“It tickles!”
Sighing, he grips my thigh hard. The heat of his hand seeps through my jeans. “Be still, and I’ll be quick.”
I bite my cheek while he drags the pen around my leg, hand holding me tight, before he switches and does the other one.
“All right.” His gaze dances up to mine from where he kneels. He clears his throat again, then glances away. “Take them off.”
I start to shimmy the jeans off, but they stick as I roll them down. Sebastian brushes my fingers away, wraps his hand around my ankle, then yanks away one jean leg, then the other, in two swift, efficient tugs.
Oh boy. He’s very good at removing clothes.
I scrunch my eyes shut and tell my lusty brain to can it.
Sebastian stands with my jeans, holding them in front of him, but this kitchen is small, and once again, we stand close. Too close.
I feel achy and flushed.
“I’m just going to go, uh—” Clearing my throat, I throw a thumb over my shoulder. “Brush my hair.”
Sebastian makes a noncommittal grunt, focused on my jeans. He turns so he’s right up against the kitchen counter and lays them out, before making the first cut with the scissors.
Safely distanced from him in the bathroom, I get my hair untangled, swearing foully in Swedish while I comb out every wind-induced knot. By the time my hair’s smooth and freshened up with dry shampoo, tugged into a sleek high ponytail, there’s a knock on the bathroom door.
I ease it open. A pair of shorts hits me in the face. “Thanks?”
He doesn’t even answer me as he tugs the door shut.
“Somebody’s moody.”
“Hungry!” he calls. “Hurry the hell up.”
Muttering to myself in Swedish, just in case Sebastian can hear me complaining about him, I yank on the shorts, then whip open the door, storming past him for the bra and top he picked out and left on my bed. I yank the curtain around me, change into the bra and shirt, tug on socks, then wedge my feet into the black-and-white Nike high-tops that he must have set out, too, before I tug back the curtain. “Was that fast enough for you?”
Sebastian turns from where he’s been standing with his back to me, arms folded across his chest. The tiniest pull at the corner of his mouth, a flicker of light in those cool, gray eyes, is all the change in his expression. But it’s something. And it makes me feel good.
Taking his sweet time for someone who was just harassing me about hurrying up, he strolls my way, somehow still graceful, even with that air cast boot thudding on the floor.
“Well?” I ask. “How’s it look?”
He’s quiet for a moment, his gaze roaming my face, trailing down my body. Then he says, “Turn around.”
“Why?”
“Sigrid. Just turn around.”
Sighing, I do as I’m told and face my reflection in the wall-mounted mirror. I look…exactly how I wanted to. Me, but with an edge.
The tank is threadbare, but not too sheer, the shadow of my black bra hinted beneath it. Sebastian not only cut the jeans into shorts but also managed to mildly distress them, the occasional slash across the fabric but not cut clean through, the bottom edges frayed so they’re soft but not ticklish. They’re short, yet not too short, enough to show off my legs without making me feel like my butt’s going to pop out when I sit. My white high-tops with their black accents and laces match my bra and top. It’s perfect.
“Now,” he says, his voice warm on my neck. “You tell me how you look.”
I bite my lip against a smile, meeting my reflection’s gaze. “I look badass.”
