Page 33 of Cold as Stone
She snaps her fingers. “Male gigolo.”
That startles a laugh out of me. Pulling my shirt up with one hand, I reveal my torso, watching as her gaze drops to my six pack. “Baby, no one can afford this deliciousness.”
She swallows, and I’m gratified to see a flush touch her cheeks. I drop the shirt, grinning when her gaze finally meets mine.
She swallows once before shrugging. “Okay, I give up. Tell me.”
“Security. I freelance—bodyguard work, property surveillance, sometimes transporting high-risk cargo.”
“That sounds intense.”
“It can be,” I admit. “But it pays well, I get to travel to interesting places, and it gives me the freedom I need to serve the club.”
“Freedom?” she echoes, her brow lifting.
“I don’t like being tied down. Not by a schedule, not by a boss, not by someone breathing down my neck about clocking in at nine sharp. I like doing the job, doing it well, and then riding away when it’s done.”
She nods slowly. “Sounds lonely.”
I meet her gaze. “Sometimes. But it also means I don’t let anyone down.”
That hangs there for a moment, heavier than I meant it. But she doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away.
She studies me a long beat, then drops a bomb. “You’ve never let me down.”
My chest clenches as we stare at each other, the moment holding its breath.
Then she clears her throat and says, “Okay, enough therapy. Help me finish this wall before I turn into an emotional pancake.”
“Deal,” I say, grateful and reluctant all at once. “Should we order pizza or can we raid the kitchen?”
“I suspect neither is an option at this time of night.”
“Damn.” I hip bump her. “Guess you’ll have to make it up to me later.”
She glances over and her smile widens. “You’ve got paint on your face,” she says, gesturing toward my cheek.
I swipe at it. “Better?”
“Worse.” She laughs, the sound soft and genuine. “Now you look like you’ve got some kind of weird green beard growing.”
“Speaking of faces with paint on them...” I flick my brush toward her, leaving a small green spatter across her cheek.
Her mouth drops open in exaggerated outrage. “You did not just do that.”
“Did what?” I ask innocently, doing it again.
Her eyes narrow, and I see the exact moment she decides retaliation is necessary. She dips her brush, a dangerous gleam in her eye.
“Don’t you dare,” I warn, taking a step back.
“Oh, I dare.” She flicks her brush, sending a spray of paint across my T-shirt.
And just like that, it’s war.
I lunge for the paint tray, and she squeals, darting away as I load up my brush. We chase each other around the narrow hallway, laughing and dodging paint splatters like kids. Her earlier tension is gone, replaced by a playfulness I haven’t seen since we were teenagers.
“You’re going to regret this!” she warns, brandishing her brush like a weapon.
