“Painting.”
“You haven’t taped anything off, Lo. And you don’t have anything covering the floor.”
She blushes furiously. “I know. I bought all the stuff”—she gestures to the bags of supplies in the corner—“but it was an impulse decision and I didn’t want to take the time to tape and stuff. That’s not the fun part.”
I laugh and shake my head at her. “You go put that stuff away. I’ll be here.”
She smiles softly, then turns on her bare heel and hurries up the stairs, yelling, “Thank you!”
I dig into the supply bags and pull out a drop cloth, brushes, and tape and set to work, running the tape along the baseboards, molding, and fireplace. Just as I spread the drop cloth on the floor, Lo returns to the room.
“What are you doing?”
“Well, if we’re going to do this, we’re going to do it right.”
“You’re helping?”
“Like I would just leave you here to do this alone? Besides”—I brush my finger down her soft cheek, over a spot of mocha-colored paint—“I think you need to be supervised.”
“Okay, you’re recruited.” She giggles and my gut clenches.
We dig in, dipping our rollers in the tray of paint, then smoothing it over the walls. “Why are you painting and not writing?”
She scrunches up her nose and turns the music back on, the volume low. “Because I got stuck. The characters are pissing me off, and Emily isn’t around to talk.”
“Who’s Emily?” I reload my roller.
“She’s an author and a good friend of mine. We usually brainstorm together, but she had to go to some family thing today, so I didn’t have anyone to talk it out with. Swimming didn’t help.” She sighs and drops her roller to her side, tilts her head, and stares blankly at the wall, as if in deep thought. Then she turns to me and, as calm as can be, raises her roller and coats my left arm in paint.
“Did you just paint me?” I ask with a raised brow.
She nods and grins, then starts singing with the song and shaking her hips while painting her wall.
She’s adorable. “I’m going to get you back for that.”
“I figured.” She shrugs as if it’s of no consequence.
“So, tell me about your characters. I’m no Emily, but maybe I can help.”
She shoots me a surprised glance and bites her lip in concentration. “Well, they’re in the middle of a fight right now.”
“What are they fighting over?”
“Another woman.” She rolls her eyes and shakes her head, as though she’s gossiping about real people. “It’s ridiculous. He’s not cheating on her. He’s completely gone over her, and she knows that, but she has so much baggage from her past that it’s difficult for her to trust.” Lo picks up more paint on her roller and turns back to the wall.
“Who is the other woman?”
“His ex-wife.” She grimaces. “The ex has photos and videos of her having sex with the hero. Unbeknownst to the heroine, those were all taken years and years ago when they were still married, but the bitch is making it look like it’s all happened recently.”
“She’s a gem,” I comment lightly.
“Oh, I hate her. Her name is Misty.” Lo throws her head back and laughs. “If the real Misty ever reads this book, she will claw my eyes out.”
“She’ll have to get through me first,” I mutter calmly, watching Lo’s beautiful face as she talks about her work. Her eyes are shining and her cheeks are glowing. She’s excited about her work.
“Anyway, I haven’t figured out how the hero is going to convince the heroine that the ex is just being a vindictive bitch.” Lo begins to sway to the music again, and I just can’t keep my hands off her for one more second.
I lower my roller to the pan and stalk over to her, wrap my arms around her middle from behind, and bury my nose in her neck, hugging her close. Her body tenses and her hand stills, the roller braced on the wall. “You smell fantastic.”
She sighs and leans into me, tilts her head back to rest on my shoulder, just as a slow song begins on the stereo. I begin to move slowly, swaying side to side, enjoying the feel of her firm body in my arms. She lays her free hand on my arm and moves with me.
I inhale her sweet scent and drag my nose down the slope of her neck before pressing my lips to the soft skin where her neck and shoulder meet. My hands begin to roam across her tight belly.
“Your stomach is so firm. I don’t think I’ve ever known a woman with washboard abs before,” I murmur into her ear. I want to see her abs.