Babysitting the Billionaire(13)
“Black, appropriate. And XXL, even too big for me. But look.” He flicked the T-shirt over his shoulder and held out his wrists to her. They were still cuffed by the shirt.
“The penguins.”
“Beautiful but not easy to manage.”
“Not easy for you.” She reached for the closest one. Something sang through her veins at the touch, but she swallowed it down. Quick bend-snap, bend-snap. “Shackles off, Mr. Kurck.”
“Beau.” He rubbed his wrists as if they had actually been handcuffed. She saw his shoulders flex, and grabbed the tail of the T-shirt as it and the Oxford slid to the ground.
He stretched up and back, making a noise something like a growl-sigh, a sun salutation in the middle of the night. “That’s more like it.”
May fought the urge to run the base of her palm up his middle, from the divot of his solar plexus, skimming the dusting of hair, on up, up, up to that marvelous cheek-jawline. Instead, she fisted the T-shirt and pushed it into his solar plexus.
His arms snapped down and caught the shirt, briefly trapping her hand in it. “I thank you, Miss Reed.”
“May.” Something was wrong with her voice, her throat was so tight. She had to calm down. Where was that drink? She fled to the kitchen and poured herself a tumbler of water twice as big as her margarita glass.
He was there before she turned the faucet off. “You’re not going to keep up that way. That’s cheating.”
“We people who have to work tomorrow call it self-preservation. And what about your shift, Mr.—Beau?”
He shrugged and turned away from her. Plopping down on her futon, he said. “Don’t forget the crisps. Real crisps, chips they call them here. And I called in unwell.”
“You called in sick?”
“I had to. Otherwise the first person to piss me off would’ve been fired. And then the first person to tell me off for firing them would be fired. Last time, I fired half my staff before I passed out.”
“How long ago was last time?” She turned one of the dining-room chairs around to face him and sat on it. Their feet shared her tiny coffee table, along with two years’ worth of Print magazines and two weeks’ worth of newspapers.
He thought about it. “Seven, eight?” He narrowed his eyes at her. “Why are you sitting so far away from me? How are we going to share the crisps that way?”
She tossed him the package underhand, even though she had played fastball as a girl. Not the time for that, really.
He opened them easily. She hadn’t been able to figure out the packaging. “Don’t like crisps?”
“I don’t know.”
“Come over here and try one. I promise not to flirt at you. No, what is the word? Pass-making?”
“Make a pass. You have been flirting since you walked in the door.”
“Before that,” he said, nodding. “Rest assured, we Finns can drink ‘til morning. But perform? Not so much. Have no fear.”
His honesty startled a laugh out of her. “So you didn’t come here for a pity fuck?”
Even his blush was rugged, the pink fighting to get through his day-old beard. “Okay, maybe. More like a pity snuggle.”
“I’ll give you a pity spare bed. How’s that?”
“Fair compromise.” His gaze snapped to hers. “You’re not gay, too?”
“No, I’m not.” She felt inappropriately pleased at his expression of relief, and then stung as the sides of his face dragged into gloom.
“I have bad gaydar.”
She had to laugh, and because she’d been drinking, once she started she couldn’t stop. He looked at her, startled; and then his lips wobbled, and then he guffawed right along with her.
She got up and refilled her water glass. He’d loaded the coffee table with his mixer and Sauza tequila, very efficient.
He was still chuckling when she returned, and it seemed only natural to come closer and perch on the futon with him. He reached his glass over and clinked on her tumbler of water. “Hölkyn kölkyn.”
“Really?”
“It’s what we say to make the tourists laugh.”
“It works.” She tried to repeat it, making him laugh. The sound had a creak like a rusty Tin Man.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, but he waved her off.
“Dull and gone. Tell me about yourself, Miss May. This pink penguin I’m wearing—is it yours?”
“It is. This was a prize during our team-building exercise last year.”
“Is there anyone at Penguin Foundation who wears XXL?” He wiggled his shoulders, and the shirt danced on without him.
“No.”
“Great way to build a team, to suggest you’re all skinny weaklings.”