Head Over Heels

little buzz.

“I really can paint, you know,” Chloe said. “If we keep the windows open, and I wear a mask.”

“No way.”

“No way?” she repeated in disbelief. “You don’t get to tell me what I can and can’t do, Sawyer.”

He sighed and swiped a hand over his face. This was his own fault for demanding instead of asking. He located one of the paper masks that the paint store had given him with his purchase.

It covered her mouth and nose, and when she got it into position, she looked at him. “I know you’re just concerned and not trying to be a domineering asshole,” she said benignly through the paper.

“Do you?” he asked, amused in spite of himself. She looked adorable.

And sexy.

“Yes. But I’m a big girl.”

And wasn’t that just the problem.

Her eyes crinkled so he knew she was smiling as they began painting.

“How’s your dad?” she asked.

He watched as she stretched up high as she could with her roller. “Ornery as hell,” he said, eyes locked on her bare legs.

“I hear they get that way with age.”

He had to laugh. “Then he’s always been old.”

“You have your moments, too, you know.”

That gave him pause. “Are you saying I’m like him?”

“I’m saying that sometimes genetics are annoying.”

She was still painting, paying him no special attention, allowing him to look his fill. He wondered if she was referring to Phoebe and the wanderlust lifestyle that had been forced on her, or if she blamed the father she’d never known for not sticking around.

She dipped her roller into the paint tray very carefully. “Sometimes I wonder what I got from my dad. If he was…difficult. You know, like me.”

Sawyer had liked Phoebe, he really had, but sometimes he wanted her to come back to life just so he could strangle her. How could she never have told Chloe a thing about her father, given her nothing of half of her own heritage-no knowledge, no memories, nothing?

Sawyer had never asked his father much about his own mother. It had hurt that she’d left him, and for a hell of a long time, he’d been positive that he’d been the reason she’d gone. But that was different. Chloe’s dad hadn’t been there from the get-go. “You’re not difficult,” he said, meaning it, but when she snorted with laughter, he had to smile. “Okay, maybe you’re a little difficult, but I like it.”

“You do not. No one likes difficult. Which is why I’m so hard to put up with.”

It took him a moment to answer because suddenly his throat burned like fire. “If I don’t get to tell you what to do, you don’t get to tell me how I feel,” he said, and watched her eyes crinkle at the corners as she smiled at her own words being tossed back in her face.

Then she scratched the bridge of her nose and left a smudge of paint there, and another just beneath her left eye. Uncharacteristically silent, she turned back to her wall.

They painted in silence for five full minutes.

“You think he’d like the way I turned out?” she asked her wall casually. Too casually. “You know, my father.”

God, she was killing him. “I think he’d be proud of you, of your giving nature and spirit, how you live your life. Everything.”

She glanced at him. “Including the way I jump in without thinking things through?”

“Proud,” he repeated firmly.

She stared at him, then nodded. “Thanks.” She nudged him with her hip when they both bent for the paint tray at the same time. “And I bet your dad’s proud of you too.”

It was Sawyer’s turn to snort.

“Deep down,” Chloe said, sounding sure.

Maybe deep, deep, deep down, but Sawyer kind of doubted it.

“At least he’s around,” Chloe said softly. “And he visits with you.” She shrugged. “So he’s a grumpy old fart. Life’s short, Sawyer. Sometimes you have to take what you can get and make it okay.”

With this deeply profound statement, Chloe bent over to load more paint onto her roller, pulled back her mask, and flashed him those black panties again, distracting him.

At some point, she put down her roller and went for that second bottle of wine. He doubted the alcohol was good for her asthma, but he’d be damned if he’d point that out. He’d drink the whole bottle himself first before pointing it out. “Before you open that, there’s beer in the fridge. I’m going to have one of those instead.”

She eyed him, a small mischievous smile tugging at her mouth. Had she seen through him? No telling with her. But she put down the bottle, leaving it unopened. “I’m a little bit of a lightweight anyway. Maybe I’ll share a beer with you.”

“Sure.” He got one out of the fridge and offered her the first sip. She passed it back, and he took a big gulp, watching her as she checked out his empty kitchen.

She hadn’t been kidding about being a light drinker. She suddenly wasn’t seeming all that steady on her feet after two and a half glasses of wine. But then again, he wasn’t all that steady himself after the two beers he’d had before she got here, then the lion’s share of the wine.

They moved back to the dining room to eye their handiwork.

“Huh,” she said, and rubbed at the streak of paint on her jaw.

“What?” He watched her shake her head as if having a private conversation with herself. She laughed.

So did he. Because two walls looked neat, smooth, and orderly.

His.

The other two walls, Chloe’s, had been painted in haphazard, uneven strokes utterly without pattern. “Your wall looks…off,” he said diplomatically.

“It’s your house. Your house’s crooked,” she said, gesturing to it as she blew a strand of hair from her face. She was paint-spattered and sweaty, and sexy as hell.

He smiled at her. “You’re crooked,” he said, and she burst out laughing, sliding to the floor in a puddle of mirth.

“Probably we shouldn’t be painting in your condition,” she finally managed, swiping her eyes.

“Your condition is worse than mine.”

“Says who?”

“I’m a cop. I know these things. And I know something else, too. We’re stopping painting now.”

“Yeah?” He heard her breath catch, and when she ran her gaze down his body, she wasn’t the only one.

“You have something else in mind, Sheriff?”

“Yeah.”

She stared up at him for a long moment, then reached for his beer. He pulled it out of reach, brought it to his lips, and tilted his head back to finish it off in two long swallows.

“Are you drunk?” she whispered.

“More tipsy than I’d like,” he whispered back. “You?”

“I don’t know.” Very carefully, she spread her arms. “Give me a sobriety test, Officer Hottie.”

He grinned. “Hottie?”

“Yes, but shh, don’t tell yourself that I think so. It’ll go to your head. What do I have to do to pass?”

“Walk a straight line.”

Affecting a model-on-the-catwalk strut, Chloe headed straight toward him and tripped over her own feet. “Whoops,” she said when he caught her up against him. Her eyes were glassy, and her lips were parted. Damp with exertion and warm to the touch, she was both heaven and hell.

Her hands went immediately to his ass, and damn if she didn’t cop a feel. “Sorry,” she murmured and gave him a squeeze. “I think I failed the test. You should handcuff me now.”

Sawyer would like that. He’d like to handcuff her to his bed and bury himself deep. “Chloe-”

“Uh-oh. Did I scare you off, Sheriff Hottie? Because I can stop talking now. Actually, I-”