Page 7 of Iowa Intellect
A medley of high-pitched, disappointed sounds emerges from the pint-sized princesses.
Caroline saves the day by telling them an elaborate story of how her father needs her to help him find pearls for a magical necklace. By the time she finishes her tall tale, the girls are gazing up at her as if she is the most amazing being on the planet. I have to admit, I don’t disagree with their assessment.
When Caroline gracefully waves and blows kisses in the girls’ direction, I take that as my cue to wheel her to the driveway. The children squeal and wish her luck on her pearl-gathering mission before telling her goodbye.
Once we’re in front of the house, I ask the woman, “Do you need some assistance getting out of that tail?”
I’d thought I was being helpful, but she looks at me as if I’ve just suggested that she cut off her own arm. Her tone is outraged when she says, “I can’t risk having any of the girls see my legs.”
“Oh, right,” I mutter, feeling dense for not thinking of that.
Confusion furrows my brow as I stare between the woman and her car. “How do you drive home in that getup?”
“Normally, I talk someone into assisting me into my car. I shimmy out of the tail once I’m out-of-sight inside my vehicle,” she answers logically.
Although her answer makes sense, my mind can’t stop focusing on the mental image of her wiggling out of her colorful tail. I’m desperate to know what she’s wearing underneath it. Since I’m so busy picturing that, I completely miss the hint that she needs my help.
After awkwardly clearing her throat, she asks me, “Is there any way I could trouble you to lift me into my car?”
“Oh, of course,” I answer, immediately jumping into action.
After I open the driver’s side door, she says, “I’d rather get into the back seat because there is more room for me to maneuver.”
“Right,” I mutter, disappointed with myself for not being more intuitive and thinking of this myself.
After closing the driver’s door and opening the backseat door, I move to lift her out of her cart. She places an arm delicately around my neck. Despite the cool temperature of her skin, heat sears along my spine at her touch.
I deposit her into the backseat of her car, then stand there awkwardly for a long moment. Realizing that she probably doesn’t want me ogling her as she emerges from her tail, I offer to load her cart into the trunk.
Once she’s closed into the car, I move around to the back and use the hand latch to open the trunk. My eyes are drawn to the car’s back window as she scoots around in the back seat. I can only see the top third of her, but I’m vividly imagining what the rest looks like.
By the time I close her trunk, she is emerging from the back of her vehicle looking casual and adorable in tight-fitting leggings, and a white T-shirt. The bright colors of her mermaid bra are peeking through the thin fabric of her top.
I’ve never seen her dressed so casually before. My throat becomes parched as I realize the relaxed clothes look good on her––really good.
The dryness in my throat becomes an actual lump that I’m unable to swallow around when she gives me a wide smile and asks, “My place or yours?”
8
CAROLINE
Brock becomes completely tongue-tied over my bold and flirty inquiry. I hadn’t meant to be so forward, but the words slipped out before I had a chance to really think them through. Seeing him so flustered makes me almost happy I didn’t filter the racy question.
For the first time since I’ve known him, Brock completely stutters and stammers over his answer. “Oh, I, umm. It doesn’t matter to me. Uh, we can spend the night… Err, we can stay wherever you’ll be more comfortable.”
I can’t keep from grinning at his rattled response. He has always seemed so smooth and confident. I assumed he was a natural ladies’ man, but his obvious discomfort over this tiny bit of suggestiveness hints otherwise.
It would be so fun to explore this awkward, sweet side of him, but that would be a move into dangerous territory. He’s already far more special to me than a typical player from the team, so getting to know him better with some fun banter during our forced night together is probably a colossally bad idea.
After thinking it over for a moment, I say, “The only place for you to sleep at my apartment is the sofa. I’m afraid that will be uncomfortably cramped for a big guy like you.”
Almost as if it has a mind of its own, my gaze travels down his thick, strong body and back up again.
Why did my eyes do that when it was expressly against my wishes? Now, I’ve made things super awkward.
When our gazes lock, his is filled with surprise, intrigue, and what I can only assume is lust. I want to bask in this addictive look from him, but I can’t allow myself to do that. Instead, I say in a brisk tone, “I assume we’ll both be more comfortable at your place.”
His voice starts out croaky, until he clears it. “Yes. Ahem. I have several guest bedrooms for you to choose between. My mom finds them to be acceptable, and she’s always been nearly impossible to please––even when we were dirt poor––so I’m sure the accommodations will suffice for you for one night.”
