Page 33 of Triple Play
“Yeah.”
“You know how to paint toenails?”
“I have two older sisters.” I move closer and sit on the edge of her bed without asking. “I know how to do a lot of things.”
The words come out more suggestive than I intended. Her eyes flick to mine and hold.
Something sparks.
“That so?” Her voice is careful, neutral.
“Yeah.” I reach for the nail polish bottle. “Let me.”
She hesitates, then hands it over.
Her foot feels small in my hand—delicate. I shouldn’t notice things like that, but I do. I notice everything about her, apparently.
I dip the brush and start on her big toe.
My hands are steady, thanks to years of hand-eye coordination from hockey and being forced to sit still while my sisters practiced makeup techniques on me when I was ten.
“You’re actually good at this,” she says, sounding surprised.
“Told you.”
“Your sisters taught you?”
“Molly and Caroline. Both lawyers now. Both terrifying.” I finish her big toe and move to the second. “They used to make me play salon when I was a kid. I was the only one who would sit still long enough.”
“That’s kind of sweet.”
“Don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation to maintain.”
She laughs softly. The sound does something to my chest, making it feel tight and loose at the same time.
I’m in trouble.
Deep, deep trouble.
Because I like her. Not just want her—though I definitely want her—but actually like her. The way she doesn’t take shit from anyone. The way she’s been handling Grant’s cold shoulderand the team’s petty bullshit. The way she put that vibrator on the bathroom counter like a declaration of war.
She’s magnificent.
And I’m painting her toenails like some kind of simp.
My father would be horrified. Senator Dickson’s son, on his knees for a girl he’s known for only a handful of days.
But my father isn’t here.
And she smells good—something clean and warm, maybe citrus. I want to lean in closer and find out where it’s coming from.
I don’t.
I keep painting, focusing on the task, trying not to think about how her leg is warm under my hand. How if I slid my palm up a few inches, I’d be touching her thigh.
Bad idea.
Terrible idea.
