“The last option,” Owen said. “It won’t be hard to turn the C into an O. Then we can fill it in with whatever we want.”
“Everyone in agreement?” Kiki asked the others.
“Owen should be in charge. He’s a great artist,” Maria said.
Owen blushed.
Since I was about as artistic as I am athletic, I volunteered to shake up the paint cans and act as the all-around gofer. Which also meant I could watch the basketball game.
After Brady took off his jacket, revealing muscled arms and a broad chest with pectorals so defined I could actually see the outline of them through his cotton T-shirt, I wished he’d been playing on the skins team.
And he played with a balance of aggressiveness and teamwork. I’d wondered if he’d be overly competitive, not only because these kids were younger than him, but also because his brother was a professional athlete. So I had to admit his sense of fair play intrigued me.
One time he caught me watching him and he stole the ball and sank a jump shot. The way he moved that lean body was almost as compelling as the cocky grin he aimed in my direction.
“You’ve been holding out on me, roomie,” Kiley said behind me.
“I haven’t. I ran into him last night at Maxie’s, which was almost as bizarre as him being the corporate volunteer. I’ve worked at Lund for almost a year and before last week I could count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen him. Now it’s like he’s everywhere.”
“The universe is telling you something.”
I turned to face her. “Telling me what?”
She shrugged. “Don’t know yet. But there is a reason you two keep ending up at the same places—outside of work.”
A shout brought us back to the wall to help out.
The next time I happened to glance over at the game, the players had switched it up and Brady was playing for the skins team.
And I froze in place, seeing the musculature rippling in his back as he jumped to block, but Red shot over him and the ball dropped neatly through the hoop.
That must’ve been the game ender. Both teams high- and low-fived as they walked off the court toward the picnic table.
After Brady plucked his shirt off the ground and used it to mop his face and neck, his gaze connected with mine.
It took every ounce of willpower I had not to let my focus drop to the dark hair covering his chest, or fall lower to what I assumed were killer abs, or become mesmerized by the way his biceps flexed as he walked closer, holding his T-shirt.
Eyes on his face, eyes on his face—crap, my eyes did their own thing and dipped down to his neck and across those wide shoulders and down over his furred chest to the little pillows of flesh that comprised his abs. I forced my traitorous eyes to zoom back up to his and not drop, even for a second, to what he had going on below the waistband of his athletic shorts.
He stopped a foot away from me, a grin playing at the corners of his mouth. “I thought my girlfriend would have a bottle of water cracked open and ready for her hard-playing man.”
My eyes narrowed.
His grin widened. “Fine. Come here and give me a hug, woman.”
It registered that I had a can of spray paint in my hand. I took a half step back and held it up. “Keep your hot, sweaty body right there.”
“Or what? You’ll spray paint me?”
He’d taken another step closer, forcing me to take one back. “Don’t push your luck, Brady.”
“So you’ll set a bad example for these kids and start an all-out paint fight just to avoid giving me a hug? Come on, baby,” he said in a husky tone. “Give it to me.”
“All-out paint fight? From what I see, I’m the one with the can of paint, not you, so you’d better just stop right there.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
Not a good thing to dare me—I’ve never been able to resist one. So I started to shake the can. “Okay, if we’re playing truth or dare, I’ll pick . . . dare.”
Brady immediately backed up. “Lennox. I was joking. Having fun with this.”
I stepped toward him. “And now I’m having fun with it.”
Then he stopped and threw his arms open. “Okay, wild thing. If you’re going to do it, make it count.”
I pressed my finger on the sprayer head and aimed at his chest. I made one long neon green line down the right side, and then a shorter line above the waistband of his boxers.
His mouth dropped open and he stared at the beautiful L I’d painted on his chest.
But I didn’t have time to bask in my derring-do.
Brady snatched the can from me. Keeping a tight grip on my wrist, he aimed the nozzle at himself and turned the L into a lopsided B. Then he wrapped his arms around me, plastering our chests together.