Page 133 of No Contest
Pickle:I'M RIGHT HERE
Pickle:It was a legitimate question
Jake:Hog back me up. Playoff beards: mandatory or vibe?
I typed one-handed, the other resting on the workbench beside me.
Hog:Vibe. But if you can't grow one don't try. Nobody needs to see whatever's happening on Pickle's face.
Pickle:BETRAYAL
Pickle:I thought we were brothers
Hog:Brothers tell brothers when their facial hair looks like tiny bugs crawling on their face
Jake:This is the content I live for
Rhett glanced over. "Team drama?"
"Pickle's worried about his playoff beard situation."
"Does he have a beard?"
"That's the problem." I pocketed the phone. "Kid's twenty-one. Give him another decade."
"You were twenty-one once."
"Yeah, and I looked twelve. Took me until twenty-five to grow anything respectable." I touched my beard, the auburn mess that Rhett claimed to like. "Now I can't imagine not having it."
"Good." He moved close again, hands reaching out to rest on my hips. "I like the beard."
"I know. You've mentioned it. Frequently. Usually right before—"
He kissed me, cutting off the rest of that sentence. This one was slower and deeper. It made me forget we were standing in a workshop in the middle of winter with sawdust coating every surface.
When he pulled back, I was breathing harder.
"You were saying?" he asked, entirely too pleased with himself.
"I forgot. You're a menace."
"You like it."
"Tragically, yes." I caught his hand and laced our fingers together. "Come on. Let's get out of here before I do something that involves you explaining sawdust burns to your next client."
He laughed. "Ten minutes, I said."
"It's been twelve."
"You distracted me."
"I was standing here quietly."
"You were standing here breathing. That's distracting enough."
I followed him while he turned off the lights one by one, locked the door, and checked it twice. Outside, the snow had picked up. My Prius looked like a lumpy ghost in the corner of the lot.
"You driving or following?" I asked.
