Someone to Love(54)

It’s probably not that bad. It’s not like I’m out to impress the peanut gallery. In fact, the less appetizing I look, the less likely I am to score unwanted phone numbers once the hour is through.

Webber scuttles me off to a dressing room, and I’m quick to strip to nothing. I glance down at the dark triangle spraying out over my thighs and gasp at my unkempt oversight.

Gah! I’m a bush. This is horrible. This is far worse than I thought. Not only am I slightly out of shape and my boobs have picked this day to sag like oversized water balloons, but I have the Butchart Gardens sprouting from my ass—quite literally.

Crap.

I’ll have to take the cash and catch the next flight back to California after this debacle, or I’ll be risking some horrific nickname that will haunt me the rest of my natural days like, Bushzilla, or Pubic Enemy Number One, Magic Carpet Ride, or Carnal Curtains. I suppose after this haired mess I’ll owe everybody here one big “pubic” apology.

“Let’s go, let’s go!” Professor Webber spurs me on with her ability to herd me from the makeshift closet.

I don my robe and file in behind a man in purple, staring down at his feet as we conduct the walk of shame to our respective seating areas. It didn’t occur to me until now that the metal stool I’ll be displaying myself on will feel like someone tucked a glacier under my bare bottom, at least for the first few minutes.

From my peripheral vision, I see his robe fall in a lavender puddle to the floor.

I take a deep breath. What in the hell have I gotten myself into? Taking off my clothes in public? What’s next? Strip clubs?

Okay. Relax. Nobody is going to care what I look like. This is in the name of art. The entire class is probably thrilled to have some youth to contrast the geezer standing next to me.

It’s like ripping off a band-aid. I just need to do it and not put too much thought into it.

A cool breeze hits me as I pull back the robe. I feel the fabric release from my shoulders and trickle down my body with a pronounced finality. I pretend to inspect the chipped polish on my toes when really I’m trying my hardest to die from mortification because right about now death seems the only plausible way out of this mess.

“Kenny?”

I glance up at the familiar voice.

Standing before me is a very gorgeous, very surprised, and very much naked Cruise Elton.

“Shit!” I cross my hands over my chest and knock my knees together.

It’s him! Where the hell is the geezer?

I do a quick once-over and suck in a breath.

Double shit! I just saw it! Right here in front of at least forty-five different witnesses, I’ve just laid eyes on Cruise Elton’s package for the very first time.

My stomach cinches. My eyes drift right back to where he hangs long and lean down his thigh, and in no fucking way did he ever get it chopped in half in some motorcycle accident.

“Take a seat.” Professor Webber barks out the order and both Cruise and I are quick to comply.

Cruise settles into his chair, never taking his eyes off mine. He gives the tiniest hint of a lewd smile, and I can feel my entire body flood with heat.

I scowl over at him. Damn pervert. I wouldn’t put it past him to shake this kind of delicate information out of poor wire-haired Webber. Although, I suppose, he could be in the market to turn a quick buck.

“God, she’s turning beat red!” Someone shouts from the periphery.

Professor Webber lets out a few viral claps. “Don’t be afraid to use color.”

Great. Not only will I be a hairy bush, but I’ll look as if I’m about to catch fire, I’ll be the burning bush. And right about now, I’d do anything for a gallon of gas and a couple of matches to put an end to this misery.

I glance back over at Cruise, and my eyes dip down his chest. It’s smooth and wide as a building. Cruise takes immaculate care of his body. He would never show up for “strip beyond your skivvies day” and not be courteous enough to manscape his scrotum. Speaking of which. My gaze dips a little lower, slow and sweet like honey and I see a sparse line of dark brown curls that lead down from his belly button like a neatly hedged treasure trail, then an enormous fold of skin lying over his thigh and…Oh. My. God. It’s growing. It’s rousing to life slow and lethargic, like a giant, waking from a very long slumber.

Cruise needles me with the beginnings of a nefarious smile. He’s blooming to life, and it’s all for me.

The entire class breaks out in a viral gasp as if Cruise is doing something insanely unnatural like levitating or swiveling his head 360 degrees. But this is completely natural, and perhaps the best part is, it’s directly in response to yours truly. I hope.