Chapter Eighteen

 

Jayda: You have got to learn to keep your tongue in your own mouth.

Me: You’re the one who made me have dinner with him.

Jayda: I didn’t make you do anything. I dangled a guilt bait in front of you and you took it.

Jayda: Besides, I didn’t make you shove your tongue down his throat, did I?

Me: It just happened.

Jayda: You know what just happens, Kali? Dropping a glass. Kicking the remote off your table. Forgetting about the peppers in the bottom drawer of your fridge. Those things just happen. Kissing someone does not just happen.

 

Seriously. You forget about peppers one time. One. Time. And you’re victimized over it for years. Pfft.

 

Me: It does just happen and it did just happen. Now I have to paint his house all day when his kids are at daycare.

Jayda: Kiss him again and finish the job when you won’t be interrupted.

Me: Against company rules!

Jayda: …Which you’ve done a stellar job of following so far.

Me: Fuck off.

Jayda: Get fucked.

Jayda: No, literally. Literally get fucked.

Me: We’re done here.

 

***

 

While I didn’t disagree with Jayda’s recommendation of getting fucked, it was inappropriate. We’d already crossed that line, but I wasn’t sure crossing it even further was a wise thing to do.

For now, I was going to focus on my job. Nothing else but my job. That was my plan, and I was going to stick with it, no matter how hard it seemed at times.

After a quick call with my dad to check on the progress of the kids’ beds, I got stuck in to painting. I’d called Eric and had him delay the floors by another twenty-four hours. It was annoying, and he hadn’t sounded too impressed.

Until I’d explained why.

Then he’d laughed for a good five minutes before telling me he’d waive the extra delivery fee.

Gee, thanks, friend.

I told him if he really wanted to make it better, to get his ass over here and paint. Naturally, he refused, so here I was, by myself, painting.

In silence.

It was, actually, quite nice. Aside from the first few days, I hadn’t been in the house alone to get work done. There had always been the undercurrent of noise from the kids downstairs—if they weren’t up here.

In an odd way, though, I missed that same noise. It was almost eerie to be alone in the empty house, so I set my phone on the windowsill in Eli’s room and opened Spotify. The quiet hum of music made it a little easier to cope with.

I painted and painted and painted, going over and over the spots that had been…affected…yesterday. That was the nicest way I could put it in my mind.

While the white paint dried on those bits in Eli’s room, I washed my hands and, with my phone between my teeth, moved into Ellie’s. Her paint had dried evenly—more so than I’d thought it would—so I knew that with one more coat, her walls would be done.

I pulled my phone from my mouth and texted Eric quickly to confirm he could get the flooring in at least Ellie’s room tomorrow. Without hanging around for his response, I cracked open a paint can using a screwdriver and poured it into a tray.

I would be glad to see the end of this pink paint.

Shamelessly, I sang along to Justin Bieber as I painted. It cycled through my favorite, big playlist on shuffle, taking me from the country twangs of Luke Bryan to the latest Maroon 5.

I hummed along, not knowing the words, until it flipped over to Sam Hunt. Trading my roller for a paintbrush, I dipped it in the paint and sang along to Body Like a Back Road. Between dips, the paintbrush acted as my microphone.

Oh my god, I’d never had so much fun painting in my life.

I stood, wiped paint from the brush, and continued my personal concert. The music flipped over from Sam to Demi Lovato’s Instruction, and, well, I got into it a little too much.

The brush was my mic; the window my adoring fans. I slid left and right and back just like the song demanded. My braid swung around my shoulders as I danced.

I spun.

And froze.

Open-mouthed, mid-chorus, I stopped on the balls of my feet, staring at Brantley in the doorway.

Oh, shit.

The grin that stretched across his handsome face was disarming, and it was clear to see that he’d been quietly laughing his ass off as he watched me.

I took a step to the side, my bare foot kicking the paint tray. “Ouch!” I grabbed my ankle and hopped to the side, leaning against the dry wall. “Um…Hi. I didn’t see you there.”

He just grinned at me.

“How long have you, um, been there?”

“Long enough.” His eyes sparkled.

Oh god.

“Oh goddddd,” I moaned.

“If this building thing doesn’t work out for you, can I suggest the X-Factor?” He rubbed his hand over his mouth.

I blushed furiously, my cheeks burning right red.

“I have to be honest. If I knew I’d be getting a show, I’d have come home half an hour ago.”

“I was just taking a break. Stretching, you know.” I let go of my ankle and gingerly put my foot down. “Getting rid of some cramp.”

“Is dancing to Demi Lovato conductive to getting rid of cramp, then?”

“How do you know it’s Demi Lovato?”

“I listen to the radio in the car, you know.”

“Right. ‘Course.” I turned and paused the music, taking a second to realize why I didn’t know he was coming: I’d turned the volume right up. “I’ll just…” I waved my brush. “Get back to work.”

“Are you sure you don’t have the Macarena on that list?”

“One song!” I threw my arms out. “One song. God. Everyone does it.”

“Generally, not with paintbrushes.”

“I improvised. Sue me.”

He laughed, pressing his hand against his stomach. “Come on. It’s lunchtime. I stopped in to the Coastal. I got lunch and an interrogation.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “Did you accidentally buy too much, or…?”

“No, I deliberately bought you a sandwich. Marcie told me your favorite, then proceeded to interrogate me about dinner last night.”

“Oh no.” That meant my mother knew and I could expect a visit tonight. “What, um…What did you say?”

“I told her I couldn’t tell her anything because a gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell, but that you left later than she’d been told.” He winked and ran out of the room.

My eyes widened. “No, no, no! You did not say that!” I ran after him. “Brantley! Brant! No! Tell me you didn’t say it!”

He had his hands flattened on the kitchen table. He leaned forward, laughing.

I pointed my paintbrush at him. “Tell me you’re messing with me!”

“Nope. Sorry. That’s what I told her.”

“No! Oh my god! My mom is going to kill me!”

He laughed even harder.

I darted around the side of the table.

“Oh, shit!” escaped his lips as he ran around it.

I stopped where he’d just been. “I swear, I will paint you with this brush if you don’t tell me you’re messing with me. I cannot cope with this.”

“I gave them something to gossip about!” He held his hands up.

My heart skipped a beat. Oh no, no, no. “You have no idea what you’ve just done!” I ran back to my side of the table, and he went back to his. I was still waving the paintbrush menacingly in his direction. “I’m going to kill you!”

He waggled his eyebrows. “You’ll have to catch me first.”

I glared at him.

Clearly, he had no idea how determined I could be.

Three times. I chased him around the table three damn times to the sound of his laughter and my frustrated shouts.

“Stop it! Come here so I can paint you!”

“That,” he wheezed, gripping a chair to catch his breath, “would be so much sexier if you weren’t chasing me around my kitchen table.”

“Urrrrr!” I half-growled, half-groaned.

I feinted to the right—but went left. The exact same direction Brantley went in.

“Ha!” I grabbed his arm and slapped it with the paint-coated brush bristles.

“Damn it, Kali!” He reached for the brush, and before I knew it, he was chasing me around the table.

There wasn’t a chance in hell I was going to give him the brush. Who knew what mess he’d make in an effort to get me back for that measly mark on his arm?

Judging by the mess the twins were capable of…He’d make me regret ever pointing my paintbrush at him.

“Give me the brush. Now.” He dad-voiced me, holding his hand out expectantly.

I folded my arms, carefully keeping the brush close to my body without getting paint on myself. “No. That voice won’t work of me. I have twenty-six-years of practice of resistance against the Dad-Voice.”

“Worth a try. But, still… Give me the brush.”

I shook my head. “I’m not giving you the brush, because I know exactly why you want it.”

“All right. I gave you a chance.” He darted forward.

A scream left my mouth. I ran around the table once, before making a grave error—I ran out of the kitchen. Into the living room and around the coffee table before running into the hallway.

And running smack into Brantley, who’d apparently been waiting for me.

“No! Nooo!” I wrestled to keep control of the brush, but he had me. One strong arm clamped around my back, and his other hand fought for the brush. I wriggled and tugged with all my might, both hands on the brush handle while I laughed.

I wasn’t giving up, but neither was he.

A fact I realized as he angled the brush and swiped it down my face.

“Oh my god!” I released the brush with one hand and wiped it over the paint.

He laughed harder than I’d ever heard him laugh, and my whole body vibrated with the sound. Even through the annoyance that I was, once again, covered in paint, I couldn’t deny the attraction that pooled deep in my tummy.

“I told you to give me the brush!”

“Never!” I fought back, just missing getting a mouthful of paint. I managed to get the brush across his jaw, turning his stubble pink before he regained control and wiped it over my cheek.

Honestly, I had to wonder what someone would think if they could see us. Two grown-ass adults fighting over a paintbrush, both covered in pink paint.

“Oh my god, stop!” I giggled as he tickled the brush down my neck. Wriggling away, he clamped his arm tighter around me and held me against him. I managed to turn away from him, almost twisting my wrist as I kept my iron-clad grip on the brush. “Let me go!”

“No. I warned you, and you didn’t listen to me. This is your punishment.”

“Being covered in paint isn’t a punishment. It’s a daily occurrence.”

“You’re right. This is backfiring. Can you stop wriggling?”

My mouth formed a tiny ‘o’ as realization struck. My ass was snuggled carefully against his crotch, and I wasn’t the only person strangely turned on by this paint fight. Then… “Let me go.”

“That’s not how this works.”

“You’re right. It’s not.” I deliberately wriggled my ass against him. “Now, let me go.”

He gritted his teeth and slid the brush down my cheek.

“Ahhh!”

“Stop moving!”

“Let me go!”

He sighed. “We’re at a stalemate, aren’t we?”

“No.” I wriggled again, poking my ass out a little further.

“Stop it.” He painted my cheek again.

I wiped my hand on my shirt and covered my eyes. I would keep this up as long as he kept up his painting. It was already going to end badly, and there was no way I’d be able to look him in the eye after having his cock rub against my ass, so what did it matter?

“Kali…” His voice was lower, almost dangerous in its roughness. “If you don’t stop moving, I’m not going to be responsible for how hard I shove you against the wall and kiss you.”

That almost sounded like a challenge.

“Against the rules. I’m working,” I breathed.

“Given that my cock is twitching against your ass, and it’s your fault, I don’t think you can use that as an excuse.”

“If you’d just let me go…” I dropped my hand from my eyes since he seemed to have given up painting my face for now.

“You wouldn’t be covered in paint.”

“You wouldn’t have a raging hard-on.”

“A raging hard-on, eh?”

“I should stop talking right now.”

He released the paintbrush, finally, and walked around. His hand slid across my stomach as he moved so he was standing in front of me.

“I agree,” he murmured, brushing two fingertips across my temple.

My scalp tingled when he softly pushed hair behind my ear, his eyes following the movement of his hand. I shivered as the pads of his fingers brushed my earlobe, and that movement brought his gaze back to mine.

Indecision. It warred in his eyes, as I was sure it did in mine.

I wanted him to kiss me again. I wanted to feel that bliss, that escape from reality for just a few seconds.

At the very same time, I wanted him to let me go. To stop making it hard for me to resist him. To be the aloof guy he was the first couple times we met.

He leaned in.

I did the only thing I could think of doing.

I swiped my paintbrush down his cheek.

“Fuck it!”

I laughed and ducked under his arm as he raised it to wipe the paint. I ran into the kitchen and grabbed the brown paper bag with the Coastal’s logo on it.

“No.” He pointed at me. “You don’t hold food hostage.”

“I do hold food hostage.” I carefully considered my next words. “You can have it back if you promise not to kiss me again.”

He blinked at me. Looked at the bag. Met my eyes. Shrugged. “I guess I’m skipping lunch.”

My jaw dropped. “Seriously?”

“What? You want me to make a promise I can’t keep?” He raised an eyebrow. “The only reason you just got away with the shit you just pulled is because it’s during work hours.”

“Chasing me around your kitchen table doesn’t exactly equal work hours, now, does it?”

“Careful, Kali. You might talk yourself into something you can’t get out of.”

“Oh, I’m pretty sure I already did that,” I muttered to myself. “Fine. Here you go. But, I can’t promise I won’t kick you in the balls if you try again.”

“No, you won’t.”

“Try me.”

He smirked, taking the bag from me.

Crap. There was me talking myself into something I couldn’t get out of…