Page 33 of Over & Out

“Done with—” Then I narrow my eyes. Because suddenly I understand. Black marker. Huge photograph of my face. Devious grin. I walked right into this.

Chris cracks her knuckles and gets to work.

Missing teeth is the first alteration, with buck teeth in the front. Devil horns come next.

“I hate it when they airbrush all the realistic parts out, don’t you?” she says, marker chirping. She starts to hum.

“Chris,” I say. “Isn’t this kind of juvenile?”

“No way! This is art.”

She draws an unholy amount of hair sticking out of my ears. Then…“What is that?” I ask as she draws wavy stink lines coming out of my mouth. But my question is answered when she doodles fish bones and toxic waste symbols.

I hold a hand in front of my mouth, breathing out and sniffing. I’m minty fuckingfresh.

Somewhere outside our bubble, I hear the gurgle of the espresso machine and see Cindi milling around. But all I can focus on is Chris. Chris with her hip cocked as she leans against the counter, ponytail brushing the soft curve of her cheek. She’s so focused on what she’s doing, the tip of her tongue sticks out between her teeth. The whole thing is mesmerizing.

She finishes off the drawing with waxed ends on my mustache that go out to the edge of the page, and a unibrow that looks like Sasquatch fell asleep on my forehead.

When she turns the photo toward me, I try to glower. I got absolutely pummeled with the ugly stick. Chris looks so gleeful, though, that I have to bite my cheek hard to keep from laughing.

“Wow.” I hold my phone up. “May I? The artist with the art?”

She hams for the camera with a big, wide grin, looking—no, not cute. Fucking…beautiful. I think it’s the first time I’ve seen her genuinely smile, and for a moment, I can’t move. I feel like I’ve been sucked right into the sun.

“Are you done?” she asks through her smile.

“Just one more,” I say, like I haven’t been frozen in place.

“Let me see.”

Luckily I angled the phone at the last minute to not just focus on her. She frowns when I’m done, inspecting the photo. “Damn it, I forgot all the pimples.”

Okay, this is better. Roasting is safe. Staring and her smiling and taking photos is not.

I pocket my phone. “I donothave pimples.”

“That’s because of your fifty-seven-step skincare routine.”

“Soap and water. So two. Three if you count the towel.” Admittedly, hair and makeup always slather ten different creams on my face when I’m filming. But I don’t tell her that.

“Of fucking course,” Chris says. “Men can wash their face with motor oil and still look flawless.”

I smirk. “Wow. You think I’m flawless.”

“Clearly not!” She waves the photo around.

“Alrighty,” Cindi interjects. “If you children are about finished, I’ve got your coffees.”

Chris’s cheeks pinken again. What did the color scale call that?French rose, I think.

She reaches for her travel mug. “Thank you, Cindi.” She takes a sip and hums appreciatively. “This is amazing.”

A little dab of foam crests her upper lip, and her tongue darts out to retrieve it, followed by her index finger. The whole thing takes about a second, but to me, it’s like a two-hour movie, and I’m on the edge of my fucking seat.

Cindi lifts a brow, and I realize I’ve been caught ogling my assistant.

I scowl, grabbing my black coffee. “Yes, thank you, Cindi.” The words come out kind of sarcastic, and both women roll their eyes at me. “I meant it,” I mumble as I take a sip. I’m soundly ignored.

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