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“Dammit!” I cradle my hand and watch my ball veer into the gutter, inches away from a pin. Icy panic competes with the pain. A sprain is the last thing I need. I’ve seen the pile waiting for me at work—alterations to hide a pregnant actress’s growing baby bump and a ton of beadwork on a wedding dress for the finale. The wardrobe supervisor is the worst I’ve ever worked with and I need this job to pay the bills. I also need to start on the autumn release of my side hustle Wild Things, and I can’t sew hundreds of pairs of underwear with a sprain.
Timothy skids to a stop in front of me, sweeps me up into his arms, and carries me away from the lane.
“Timothy!” I shriek, squirming in his arms. My whole ass is probably hanging out of this short dress and that’s a different story than the little peek I may or may not have flashed while bowling.
He figures it out, shifting me in his arms and tugging at the dress. Too hard. Hard enough to pull the tape off. One of my tits pops out.
I squeal, he looks down, his eyes going wide, his hands squeezing me tighter—and he trips.
Chapter two
Timothy
Physicalprowessandmusclememory save the day—I don’t drop Mina Andrei, the woman I’ve loved for five years. Instead, I catch myself, rolling her in my arms, hiding her with my body while she covers herself. I don’t look. I can’t get distracted and trip again. Her safety is more important than a peek.
Jackie Chan holds up a hand to give me a high five, but my hands are full and he isn’t the real Jackie Chan. No, this is the invisible manifestation of my unrequited love, created at the suggestion of my therapist. In theory, making my feelings the third person in our friendship is supposed to help me do…something. I don’t know, I don’t remember and it doesn’t matter because my “therapist” is an old hippie who gets stoned and spends all day on the beach waxing a surfboard I’ve never seen him use.
Five years. I’ve pined so hard I could give every household in California a Christmas tree, and this little strategy of naming my feelings? It isn’t working. Jackie kicks my heart around daily and now we both know what shade of pink Mina’s nipples are.
Dusky rose.
Our lives are never going to be the same.
I set her carefully on her feet at the bar. My face is hot and I’m not sure if I’m struggling to contain my laughter or if I’m hyperventilating because I saw her breast.
“Ice in a towel,” I manage to say to the bartender. “And two slippery nipples.”
The love of my life smacks my chest with her good hand, her dark eyes sparkling as she tries not to laugh. “Smartass.”
“How’s your hand?”
Mina ignores my question and her injured hand, fussing with her dress instead. “You are lucky you didn’t rip this masterpiece.”
She’s worried about her dress, and I tripped because I saw a nipple. I bite my lip, but I can’t keep it inside any longer. My head drops to her shoulder as I shake with laughter.
Mina laughs, probably because I’m laughing, then she hits me again, on the arm this time. “Rude.”
“I’m sorry about the nip slip,” I say when I get it under control. I suck in a deep breath because her scent is intoxicating—a little floral, a lot spicy. Like candlelit nights, luxurious bedding, and scattered petals.
“Tit slip,” she corrects wryly. “It was all out there.”
Sure was, and what a glorious sight. Pity I had to share it with half the weirdos in LA.
The bartender comes back with the towel-wrapped ice and I pull my face off Mina’s shoulder, gently taking her right hand. She can’t afford to miss work, so I watch her face closely for any sign of pain as I spend a long minute moving her elegant fingers. She’s humoring me, but I always take what I can get from her.
I love her hands. I love when she touches me, those innocent little platonic touches that are never enough. My dreams are filled with her hands. I want to suck each fingertip. I want to feel them flick over the barbell in my right nipple. In the best dreams, her fingers are wrapped tight in my hair, guiding my mouth back to—
“Nothing broken,” I announce, ending my examination abruptly and placing the ice in her hand before she can figure out where my thoughts have gone. I’m not a doctor—never stunt-doubled for one on TV—but I’ve broken a lot of bones. I’ve sprained and strained just about everything. If she’d done some damage to her hand, there’s no way she’d be staring up at me, her eyes wide and dark like—whoa.
My breath catches. She’s never looked at me like this before. Like she wants to climb me. I wet my lips and her eyes track the movement. Shit…am I imagining this? Did I want it so hard that I manifested it?
“Does it hurt?” I ask, my voice unexpectedly coming out too deep, too growly.
She blinks at me, her brow furrowing. “What?”
Inside, I’m doing backflips across the bar. With a huge grin, I grab her wrist and raise her hand in front of her face. “Your hand?”
Her cheeks turn an adorable pink. “Oh. No, I must have tweaked it. It’s fine now.” She’s frowning as she turns to put the ice on the bar, and Jackie Chan gives me a solid shove. I take a step closer to her. When she turns back, her eyes go wide.
