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“We rented the whole place so you could have a day of being pampered,” Austen answers, crossing the room to kiss me on the cheek. “No one around to comment on your cohabitation with the deputy. Happy birthday.” I debate bursting into tears for a moment, but that’s not my style. Still, this is pretty awesome.
“Come on, sweetheart,” Lynn says, waving me toward her. “I’ve got a seat with your name on it.”
I walk to the pedicure chair. Taking off my shoes and socks, I climb into the seat. My feet ease into the bubbling water. A plate with a fancy sandwich is thrust into my hands. Ahhh. This is the life.
“Speaking of cohabitation,” Austen begins. “How is living with Owen going?”
“It’s good. His shifts are erratic, so that took some getting used to. But, good.” I can’t think of another word to describe nights of earth-shattering orgasms, days of working on the house together, and meals cooked as a family filled with laughter. It really is… good.
“Has the teenage drama started yet?” she asks.
“Not too bad. She’s working hard on Owen to let her go to the seventh-grade dance with this Colton kid. So far, Owen refuses to even talk about it.”
“How bad can it be?” Brontë asks. “I remember the seventh-grade dance being pretty tame. What has this boy got that has his hackles up?”
“Do you remember Reed when he first moved to town?”
“That cute, huh? Yeah, that’s bad,” she agrees. “Still, I think he should let her go.”
“I agree, but I can’t get into the middle of it.”
“Why?” Austen says. “You’re the only one in town he’ll listen to.”
“What color, honey?” Bless Lynn for saving me from any more of this conversation.
“She needs something that says she puts out hard for a certain live-in sheriff’s deputy,” Brontë pipes up. “But she’s no slut.”
“I’m not sure I have that one,” Lynn says, looking through her polish. “How about Sultry in the Sack red instead?”
“Perfect,” my sisters agree.
The next hour passes in bliss. I get caught up on all the local gossip while eating my sandwich, which turns out to be three tiny sandwiches. It’s the first time I’ve tried watercress, whatever that is. Dessert is a small box of cupcakes I choose from. It’s not that hard to decide. I mean, who doesn’t snatch up the chocolate one?
By the time we’re done, I have red toes and fingers. It’s a little over the top for me, but fuck it, it’s my damn birthday. Brontë returns me home with threats to my person if I go back to the office. I wave from the door and walk into my house. It’s still just as quiet as this morning. What am I supposed to do with myself until tonight?
Inspiration hits me when I walk into the bedroom. Stripping to my shirt, I crawl between the sheets. A nap is always a good idea. I don’t remember falling asleep, but I’m woken by a pair of lips pressed against my temple. My eyes flit open to find a very handsome man looking down at me.
“Hey, gorgeous,” Owen says.
“What time is it?” I moan, sitting up. The clock beside the bed says six. “Shit, I’m supposed to be ready to go out.” I bound up from the bed and sway as my equilibrium fights to catch up. Owen’s strong arms wrap around me.
“Slow down. We’re not on any time crunch,” he says.
I try to push out of his arms to head for the closet anyway, but he’s looking down at my flame-red toes. Without turning me loose, his gaze lands on the clock. Then he looks back down at my feet. He considers me for a full minute before shaking his head.
“I’ll revisit that later,” he growls.
My lady bits immediately go on high alert.
“Go get ready,” he adds with a slap to my ass. I jump at the sting. My lady junk catches on fire. “Vixen,” he mumbles as he heads for the shower.
I have to confess. If someone had called me that six months ago, I would have called bullshit. But Owen has a way of making me feel sultry, sexy, and a little wicked all at the same time. Simply put, he makes me feel beautiful. It’s the reason I wrestle on a pair of skin-tight leather pants and a blouse with an entirely too plunging neckline. Don’t worry, I can still dance in this just in case that’s what he has in mind.
Did I finally mention we finished those dance lessons? Mrs. Bradford was so moved she presented Owen with a massive basket of baked goods in appreciation. I guess, thanks to him, adult enrollment of her lessons has skyrocketed. We’re even considering enrolling in more classes just for fun. There’s something I never thought I’d say after finally taking off the tutu I had to wear in elementary school.
“What shoes should I wear?” I ask as he walks into the bedroom.
He’s in nothing but a towel wrapped low around his waist. Those two ridges of penis cleavage are just visible above the towel, and I’m here for it.
