“Were you born this bossy, or did you grow into it?” she called back in the slightly out-of-breath voice of someone tugging something on as she spoke.
He raised his head. “Bossy?” She made him sound like cranky six-year-old.
“Have you heard yourself?” Her voice dropped to a Clint Eastwood–style grumble. “No smoking. Lock your door. Make my day.”
She strode into the room, stopped in front of him, and propped her hands on her hips. “Would it kill you, just once, to say something pleasant to me instead of barking orders and biting my head off?”
Challenge probably lit her eyes laser bright, but he couldn’t verify because he couldn’t tear his attention off her outfit. The scant red remnant of a dress…scarf…whatever it was looked like one giant V-neck in eminent danger of sliding off her shoulders and landing in a puddle around her lethal silver sandals.
“What the hell are you wearing? You’re one shrug away from a wardrobe malfunction of epic proportions.”
She sighed and crossed her arms. “Try again.”
He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose until white bloomed at the edges of the darkness. Who the fuck had appointed him fashion police? Nobody. Especially not Roxy, who had requested his opinion precisely zero times. She was 100 percent comfortable in her own skin, which was admirable, and she could—correction—should wear whatever pleased her. The fact that her choices usually left him burning to tear every stitch off her cock-enslaving body was neither here nor there.
He dropped his hand and blinked her into focus. She’d taken her hair out of the braid. It flowed around her shoulders in sexy waves, the red streaks playing off the cherry-colored dress. “It’s nice of you to help Junior and Lou Ann.”
Her rigid stance relaxed a degree, but she shrugged the observation away. “It’s no problem. Anyone would.”
“But not just anyone could. They lucked out with you.”
Better. Her lips curved into a small, unexpectedly self-conscious smile before she looked at her feet. Her hair cascaded forward to curtain her face as she ran the toe of her sandal along some invisible scuff on the floor. “It’s nothing.”
“Your hair looks good like that—all long and loose.” The rest of her looked good, too, especially when she glanced up in surprise and he caught the blush on her cheeks.
“See now, was that so hard? You look really nice, too, by the way.” She pivoted, swept her hair to the front, and presented him with her back. “Can you help me with the catch?”
Help? Doubtful, unless her definition of “help” involved tugging the dress off, bracing her against the nearest wall, and fucking her onto her tiptoes until she pounded the plaster with both fists in an orgasmic frenzy.
Deal with the matter at hand, and then get the hell out of here.
Right. He got up and crossed to where she stood. A narrow chain dangled from one shoulder of the dress. A small hook at the end fastened into an equally small loop at the other shoulder. Her flowery scent engulfed him as he leaned in to grasp the chain and the clasp. Hooking the loop was like trying to thread a needle. His fingers felt huge and clumsy. He managed to snag the damn thing, but at the same moment she shifted from one foot to the other, inadvertently brushing her ass against the front of his trousers. His dick jumped, and he fumbled the clasp.
“Dammit, Reckless.” He took a stabilizing breath and backed up an inch. “Be still.”
“Sorry,” she murmured and lowered her head, offering him a long, uninterrupted view of bare skin, from the nape of her neck where an as-yet-undetermined tattoo flirted from beneath the sweep of her hair all the way down to where the wing tattoo played peek-a-boo with the plunge of her dress.
He lifted the chain again and attempted to line the hook up with the loop. He had maybe one more shot at this before he lost all control and—“Got it.” Thank Christ. He eased away. The garment fell into place—more or less. The whole thing looked precarious as hell. “Done. We’re outta here.”
It took her a few more moments to gather up her purse, a second, smaller purse that went in the first, and her guitar. He waited by the door, watching her zip back and forth with surprising nimbleness in the heels, and then relieved her of the guitar when she walked past him on the way out. A pointed look from him reminded her to lock the door, and then they were off.
In the five-minute commute back to the Inn, she managed to make him sweat for a whole new reason. She had the guitar case wedged between them, her big purse at her feet, and the smaller bag in her lap. From there she produced a succession of sharp-looking pencil-type things and used them on her eyes. He had visions of one bad bump sending them to the ER, but she greeted his suggestion she hold off on the makeover until the vehicle had come to a full and complete stop with an unperturbed, “Please. I grew up putting makeup on in a car. It’s called multi-tasking.”
“It’s called asking for a corneal abrasion,” he grumbled as he pulled into the parking lot and stopped by the front entrance.
“I’m touched by your concern, but”—she capped the tube of black stuff she’d brushed on her lashes and dropped it into her bag—“I’m done. How do I look?”
Her eyes gleamed like polished aquamarines against black velvet. She batted her lashes and pursed her lips in a deliberately flirtatious pose. The rational part of him realized she intended to be funny, but another part of him wanted to put her right back in his lap and take up where they’d left off three days ago. Some of the impulse must have shown in his face, because her eyes widened.
“Right at this moment? You look like you’re asking for trouble.”
Despite
