Page 39 of Kiss Me Now
He nodded. “Understood. But, um...” He squinted at me and pointed to his own forehead. “You’ve got some dirt.”
I removed my glove to reach up and rub the spot that he’d indicated. My fingers came away dirty. “Did I get it?” I asked, wiping my fingers against my grubby work shorts.
“No, here,” he said, walking toward me. “You kind of spread it around.”
When he was in arm’s reach, he stopped and reached toward my forehead, slowly enough for me to duck away, but his presence wasn’t at all threatening, so I stood still to let him get at the dirt.
He brushed at it lightly but only frowned at the results. “Uh, may I...?” He plucked at the hem of his T-shirt, but I wasn’t sure what he was asking, so I only blinked at him. He lifted it up, exposing a flash of his well-defined abs before they disappeared from view as he used the fabric to rub gently at my face. I was too preoccupied by the effect his abs had on me to squirm away from his fussing. I did notice that his shirt was as soft as it looked before he dropped it and stepped back, all so quickly that I didn’t get another glimpse before his shirt fell into place.
“I don’t think I fixed it,” he said. “Sorry. I think I made it worse.”
How dirty was my face? I’d need to wash it in the kitchen sink where there was no mirror to make me die of delayed embarrassment.
“It’s fine.” I scooped up my gardening tote. “I’m going home anyway. Enjoy your dinner.”
“Thanks,” he said. “I will.”
I refrained from touching the spot he’d tried to clean, sensing without looking that his gaze was following me to the front door. I closed it behind me then leaned against it. Ian had cleaned dirt off my forehead, and I’d started wondering what it would be like to make out with him.
What even...?
I touched the warm spot on my forehead. That was no fever. That was Ian Greene’s touch causing the heat reaction, and as an expert in biology, I knew we were dealing with chemistry.
And I had no interest in that kind of chemical reaction.
Chapter Fifteen
Ian
Gran had warned methat Brooke was an early riser, so I knocked on her door with a mug of Mary’s hot coffee in hand a half-hour before a time most people would consider decent.
Sure enough, Brooke opened the door already dressed in paint-stained work clothes, her hair gathered into a braid.
“Hey,” she said, a look of mild surprise on her face. “What’s up?”
“I don’t know if you’ve heard the rumors, but I love tiling so much. So I’m hanging around on your front porch hoping you’ll let me help.”
