Page 8 of Ellie Hayes and the Himbos
The tribute to masculine pride is erased in a series of sprays and wipes, though the more stubborn toothpaste flecks require that I pry at them with my thumbnail—my nail tech is always getting on me for using my claws like a multitool—before I work my way down to polishing the faucet, which sounds like a euphemism, but it is not.
As I wipe, the lightbulbs above the mirror catch my attention. There’s a gray cast to them, as though coated in a layer of dust.This will not do. I hike up my dress and clamber onto the counter, then pause. Bare feet would be inadvisable on the bathroom floor, but high heels on the counter sounds like danger times. I wiggle my toes until my shoes slip off my feet, thudding onto the floor. I wiggle them even more. Oh, those are not going back on tonight. Or ever, maybe.
Back to work! A queen never shirks her duties.
I’m considering my approach to the bulbs—spray and risk creating a mystery paste, or dry-wipe and risk inhalation—when there’s a knock at the door. I reply with an “It’s unlocked,” that, if I’m being honest, sounds pretty fucking regal.
The door opens, and behind me, a deep voice asks, “The hell are you doing up there?”
“I’m tidying,” I say primly, and turn to the—good Lord—trulymassive man now filling the doorway. “Whoa. You are alotof dude.”
His responding shrug is apologetic, which is adorable. “I get that a lot. What do you mean you’re tidying?” His “What do you mean” sludges out in one long “Whaddumean?,” which suggests he’s as sauced as I am.How festive!
“I mean that the bathroom is gross, so I’m cleaning it. Look at this.” I use the nails of my thumb and forefinger to pick at the grime on the nearest bulb, and release it to fall in one solid sheet.
The man follows the drifting ick, frowning as the gray mass settles on the counter. “Ew.”
“Quite.”
He hikes his thumb toward the door. “Mind if I shut that? I need to pee.”
“You’re in the right place,” I say, supportively, and resume decrudding the bulbs. For the sake of decorum, I position myselfso I can’t see the man’s reflection, though even with his distance from the mirror, one broad shoulder is visible around my own reflection. I focus on my task and try to ignore the unmistakable sound of someone who stands to pee.
Another panel of gray detritus comes loose. Isn’t dust mostly dead skin cells? I grimace.So gross.
The toilet flushes, and a fly is zipped. I hear, “If we’re cleaning, I’ll do the toilet. That’s not fit for a lady’s eyes.”
To say nothing of a queen, I think.
Or not, as the big guy says, “Queen?” I pretend that I haven’t accidentally spoken my thoughts aloud and thank him for his offer. The toilet is, indeed, foul.
A cabinet opens and closes, and he scrubs the toilet as I wipe down the remaining bulbs. He extends a polite “Excuse me” to wash his hands, and I step aside, focusing on eliminating the smudge my shoulder made on the mirror when I stood.
Satisfied, I decide it is time to get down off the counter. But as I turn, my heel hits a wet patch. I gasp, going into free fall. I’m coming down hard—
Until I’m not. Strong hands grip my waist, and I let out a grunt unbecoming of a lady of my status. My hands close on beefy shoulders, and I find myself staring down into a pair of remarkable gray eyes.
The hands at my waist give me a little squeeze, guiding me to a kneeling position on the counter, making us eye level. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m—” WhatamI? Other than super drunk, sharing a space with a large, unfamiliar man, and probably overdue for a threat assessment.
“Assess away.”
I frown. I’m thinking out loud. That’s no good. But I accept his invitation, leaning back as far as I can without releasing my hold on his shoulders, because they feel really nice. He’s dressed in a light, fitted sweater in a pale blue, with a white crew neck tee underneath. The sleeves of the tee are obvious under the sweater, creating rings around his bulging upper arms.
“It’s hard to find things that fit me,” he says quietly.
“It looks very nice,” I say. “But tight? I hope it’s not uncomfortable.”
He shrugs, as though resigned to his ringed fate. “Sleeves are never big enough around.”
“That must be difficult.” I look him up and down. And side to side. He’s truly a landmass of a human; I can’t fathom how much height he’d have on me if I were on the ground. His shoulders are so wide, it wouldn’t be a stretch to imagine him having to turn to the side to get through doorways.
“It’s happened,” he mumbles, so self-conscious that I let out an “Aww!” of sympathy. One of my hands shifts from his shoulder to pat his cheek. He closes his eyes, pressing the side of his face into my palm with a faint, satisfied smile. His face is smooth, like he’s only just shaved, and is so, so warm.
Even without those exceptional eyes, this fellow is a treat to look at. He has a firm jawline and defined cheekbones, not so high as to be pretty, but striking. Thick brows, too, and dark lashes. All terribly manly. Very appealing.
I have completed my assessment and identified him as a sexy man.
