“Nothing,” I answer a little too quickly, even going as far as to hop up onto the washer to keep him from getting to it. Yes, I realize how stupid that is.
“I’m going to need to get in there.”
I shake my head vehemently. “No you really don’t.”
“Juliette?” He’s advancing slowly toward me, and I begin to panic, my heart racing.
I give him my best puppy dog eyes; my parents used to fall for it all the time when I was younger, so I’m confident it’ll work now. “Please, don’t.”
He smiles, his blue eyes sparkling with nothing but mischief as he takes another step toward me. I’m still shaking my head, making myself somewhat dizzy, as he continues forward. I push myself farther back onto the washer, trying to make my body heavy and hanging onto the sides as he reaches out for me.
“Nonononono,” I keep repeating over and over again. Of course, the minute the tips of his fingers touch the exposed sliver of skin between my tank top and shorts, I consider changing it to yesyesyesyesyes!
I’m no match for him; he moves me with ease, even against my struggles to remain between him and the massacre beneath me. He sets me on the top of the dryer, my face in my hands but peeking at him through my fingers.
“You weren’t trying to poach my laundry, were you?” he teases before opening the lid and seeing the problem. “Oh.”
My hands fall from my eyes to cover my mouth as he slowly pulls out several pink pieces of clothing. “I’m so sorry,” I say, my voice muffled by my fingers. “I guess I was in such a rush to get my stuff out of there so you could use it that I missed a sock.” He remains silent, and this scares me. “A-are you mad?”
He drops his hands immediately, his shirt collar still held tightly between his fingers, and looks at me. The minute his lips turn up into a smile, I let my hands fall to my lap, feeling slightly relieved. But only slightly. “They’re just clothes, Juliette.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “But they’re pink.”
“True. But no one needs to know that.”
I drop my eyes to my fidgeting fingers. “Yeah, but I’ll know.”
Greyston snickers. “You planning to start thinking about what color my underwear might be?” I inhale sharply, and he’s quick to correct himself. “Sorry. That was…out of line.”
“Uh, no, it’s fine.” Truthfully, if what he said was out of line, everything I’ve thought about him since the day we met has been so far over the line that I can’t even see it anymore. And I am most definitely wondering about the color of the underwear he’s wearing right at this moment.
Greyston starts pulling his clothes out of the washer, and I pull my legs up and crisscross them in front of me so he can load them into the dryer. He looks amused as he removes each piece of pink clothing.
“Come on,” Greyston says after turning the dryer on. He looks up to me with a playful smirk and winks, offering me his hand. “I think you’ve had enough fun in the laundry room.”
While the initial shock of destroying his clothes was almost petrifying, I have to admit that it’s kind of funny to think that Greyston has more pink clothing than Daphne now. I start to laugh, and he looks stunned.
He lets go of my hand now that I’m firmly on my feet and crosses his arms over his chest. He’s having trouble keeping the smile from his face; I can see it in his eyes. “You think this is funny?”
“I’m sorry. It isn’t,” I assure him through fits of giggles. “But it is kind of funny… Now.”
“Oh, you think so?” There’s a note of challenge in his voice, and when he narrows his eyes, my laughter dies instantly.
He takes a stalking step toward me, and I swallow thickly, taking one backward. I raise my arm and hold up a single finger. “Doooon’t,” I instruct, sounding like I’m scolding a puppy. I try to stifle a laugh at my own comparison, and then add, “Bad, Greyston.”
And then he lunges.
I shriek, dodging him and running for the stairs, laughing the entire time. I’ve just grabbed onto the banister when his long fingers ensnare my hips. He pulls me backward, turning me and slinging me over one of his shoulders. I’m too busy struggling and laughing to really focus on the fact that his hands are so high up on my thigh they’re grazing the frayed hemline of my shorts.
Well, I wasn’t focused on it until now.
I continue to squirm in his grasp, but not too much because I’m quite enjoying the view of his ass in his running shorts. It never really occurs to me—not until I hear the patio door open, anyway—exactly what his plan is.