The story was about two penguins named Oscar and Aaron and the mischief they got into whenever Mama and Papa Penguin weren’t looking.
“They’re Toby and Tyler,” he said after he closed the orange-colored binder. “You need to finish this.” He handed it to her. “It’s really sweet.”
She took the binder and clutched it to her midriff. Her dress was still clanging around inside his dryer and after they’d showered together, she’d pulled on a shirt from his closet. She’d rolled up the too-long sleeves and the tails practically reached her knees.
As far as Jay was concerned, it would be his favorite way of seeing her dressed from here on out.
“You’re just saying that because we’ve been playing doctor all afternoon.”
“I’m saying it because you have a way with words,” he corrected and went to reach for another binder from inside her bag.
But she pulled it away. “Not so fast, Mr. Cross.” She waved her fingers at the piano behind the couch where they were sitting. “Your turn first.”
He pulled a face. “I haven’t played in a while.” That much was true.
“I don’t care.” She dropped her binder in her bag and moved around to sit on the edge of the piano bench. She patted the space beside her. “Make your mama proud.”
He chuckled, some of the odd tension that had been building inside him beginning to lessen again. He sat down beside her. “Don’t remember ever playing piano wearing nothing but my boxers.”
Her eyes sparkled. “Is it giving away too much if I admit I’m relieved to hear it?” She tapped two of the keys, discordantly. “Do you need sheet music or something?”
He shook his head and flexed his fingers comically before settling his index fingers on the keyboard.
He tapped out a fine rendition of “Chopsticks.”
She laughed and bumped her shoulder against his. “Even I can play that.”
The rest of his fingers joined in and “Chopsticks” morphed into the dramatic strains of Grieg’s Piano Concerto in A minor.
He made it through the first couple dozen bars, which was a feat in itself since he hadn’t played it since he was a kid.
But it was enough to leave Arabella staring at him slack-jawed. “That’s not ‘Chopsticks.’”
“Edvard Grieg.” He gave her a quick kiss and got up from the bench. “Norwegian composer. Only piano concerto he ever wrote. I had to learn it for a recital back in school. I don’t even remember the rest of it.”
“If you can play like that, why did you ever go into actuarial science?” She followed him into the kitchen.
“Music might have been my first love, but I was way better at math than I ever was in music theory and it paid for college.” He kissed her nose. “We ate all the fried chicken. All I’ve got in the cupboard are boxes of cereal.” He opened one to show her the truth of it. “And thanks to the workout you’ve put me through, I’m starving.”
She smirked. “My dress is still in the dryer. So I guess you’re stuck with—” She pulled out the nearest box. “Frosted Fruity Flakes. Seriously?”
“Don’t make fun. Man’s choice of breakfast cereals is sacred.” He took the box from her and shoved it back on the shelf. “And your dress ought to be dry by now. We can go have dinner at Provisions.” He went through the door that led to a powder room that was so small it always made him feel claustrophobic and into the slightly larger laundry room. When he went back out to her, he was holding her dress. “It’s wrinkled but it’s dry.”
Even though they’d just spent hours discovering every cell on each other’s bodies, she closed herself in the powder room to change.
“Not only wrinkled and dry,” she said when she emerged a few minutes later, “but about a size and a half smaller.” She twitched at the hem that was no longer midthigh but a good two inches higher. And while the zipper was done up, the denim hugged her figure in a snug way that it hadn’t before.
It wasn’t quite indecent, but he didn’t want anyone else seeing her wear it now but him. “I’ll buy you a new dress.”
She laughed and waved off the offer. “I can buy my own dresses, thank you very much. But,” she said, as she twitched again at the barely-butt-covering hem, “if we’re going to Provisions, I’d better stop off at Brady’s and change first.” She cast him a look. “Not that I’m protesting, but you might need a little more coverage in the clothing department, too.”
He struck a pose. “Plaid boxers don’t do it?”
“Anything about you does it for me. But the health code probably says otherwise.” She leaned over to pick up her book bag and showed off a peek of her sunglass-strewn underwear. Then, as if she felt his gaze, she shot him a look over her shoulder and yanked on the hem again.
He spread his palms. “Only human, honey.”
Her cheeks colored. Despite her bruised eyes, she was still the prettiest woman he’d ever known. From the outside to the inside, everything about Arabella Fortune was beautiful.
And now she’d narrowed her eyes to blue slits. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
Like he’d seen his future and didn’t want to face what it would be if it didn’t contain her?
“Just thinking about the next time Mariana sneaks us in to use the hotel’s hot tub.”
She made a stern face and pointed her finger at him. “We’re not doing that again. Brady’s already furious with me as it is.” She dropped her hand to delve into her bag again. “But that reminds me. Your shoes are still in my housekeeping cart. And if I don’t set a reminder for myself, I’m going to forget them yet again.” When she pulled her hand back out,
