Page 43 of Class Clown

Look, it pains me to say this, but I have it on good authority that once you tingle you can’t put it back in the box. I’m not saying a tingle happened with me and Nico the other night, I’m just saying if ithadhappened it would be super difficult to forget about it.

And if maybe you start noticing things about his hair or eyes, or the smell of his shaving cream, or the veins in his hands, or the way he always remembers to leave the toilet seat down, well, you can’t really be blamed. It’s nature’s way to snare us. Thankfully, as a woman, I had learned early on that nature can be shoved back into the box when we need to pretend nothing strange is going on.

Which was why I was currently sitting on the closed lid of the toilet in the miniscule cabin staring at my purple legs rather than allowing myself to think about those things. The problem – and by that, I mean the muscled ex-Marine who I can’t possibly name out loud – was standing outside the bathroom door rather than doing his circuit of morning exercises. I’d heard his routine each day, but I’d always been safely hidden behind my curtain and hadn’t bothered taking a look. This morning, when I didn’t hear the exercises start, I figured he was gone and I was free to exit my hidey-hole.

I was wrong. He’d been standing shirtless, sipping some tea when I pushed aside the sheets. His back had been to me, and somehow I’d managed to swallow down a squeak and hustle my innocent self into the privacy of the bathroom.

I hadn’t even sneaked a peek. And that was a huge warning flare. I was known for ogling. I was a top notch ogler. My friends teased me about it all the time. But this morning, I had respectfully cast my eyes away from what was most likely an impressive back, and blushed.

Blushed.

I didn’t know who I was anymore.

I’d breathed slowly against the door and stripped off my pajamas only to let out a screech when I’d seen my plum-colored legs. That squeal was a mistake because the shirtless wonder had knocked on the bathroom door and asked me if I was okay.

He was still waiting for my answer and the only thing I could blurt out was the truth.

“My legs are purple.”

“Purple?” A thoughtful pause. “I thought you said you didn’t fall that hard.”

“It’s not bruising, it’s from my pants.”

“Your pants?”

“The cute ones I was wearing on the hike. They’re brand new and I didn’t wash them beforehand. They smelled really bad when we got back from the hike and it looks like they dyed my legs purple.”

Why was I still talking? Even more important, why was I not laughing. This was hysterical. If I’d been with my friends I would have sauntered out in my underwear and shown them, and we’d have laughed together over it.

“The hike was two days ago,” he mused.

Yeah. So, warning flare number two. I’d had purple legs for days and hadn’t noticed. The situation was dire.

“Will it wash off?” he asked as I tried not to lose my cool.

I rubbed at my thigh. “Well, I’ve showered twice and they’re still purple.”

“But you didn’t notice until this morning?”

“Ugh.” I threw my hands up. “Stop saying things that make sense in a situation this ridiculous.”

Silence. “Any chance you got a concussion when your head hit that rock?”

I reached up and ran my hand over the achy spot on my head. There were no lumps. I knew the date and who was president and I didn’t have aheadache, so . . .

He huffed out a breath. “Are you giving yourself a medical exam in there?”

“I’m a nurse. I start every day with a quick medical exam.”

“Shouldn’t your legs be part of a typical medical exam?”

“My legs always look great, I never worry about them.”

Oh my gosh, the words were getting worse. Now my left foot tingled which meant I could not fully rule out some sort of neurological event.

“My foot is tingling,” I called out. “What do you think that means?”

“I . . . don’t know. Was it tingling when you woke up?”

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