opposite ends of one
wall, and before long we were shoulder to shoulder. I pulled the last strip as
high as I could, a couple of feet above me, but lost my balance and crashed
into Jack.
“Whoa,”
he said, catching me in his arms.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t
be,” he said. “We should take a break anyway.” One of his hands had landed on
my waist. He placed his other hand in mine, singing along with the radio.
Before
I could protest, he was leading me around the island of furniture, nudging me
into a two-step. The curls of wallpaper rustled under our feet.
“We
should really finish before the walls dry,” I said.
His
hand squeezed mine. I could feel his breath on my skin.
“Don’t
make me call my union rep,” he said. “Even line cooks get fifteen minutes every
three hours.”
He
grinned when our bare feet thumped together.
“I’m
not very good at this,” I said, my cheeks burning.
“You’re
thinking too hard. And trying to lead.”
“Right,”
I whispered, stumbling against him again.
“Let
yourself go. One two, one two, one two.” He twirled me by the bookshelves that
I hoped to God we would not have to paint. “You got to feel the rhythm,
darlin’. You’re faking.”
“I’m
not faking.”
“Believe
me,” he said, his voice low, “I know when a gal’s faking.” His hand tightened
on my back, pressing me so close that the length of my arm was right against
his, my other hand resting on his shoulder.
I
liked the feeling of his arms around me.
When
he twirled me again, his hand tightened around mine, and he pulled me with such
purpose that I thought I’d crash into him. I over-corrected, and we tumbled to
the floor. Jack landed on top of me, his hands on either side of my shoulders,
his face an inch from mine. He smelled like cloves and sawdust. I tensed
beneath his weight, though the warmth of his chest against mine made my breath
catch in my throat in the most delightful way.
His
eyes, blue-green as glaciers, were steady on mine.
“Grace
is my middle name,” I said. “Probably should have warned you.”
He
smiled. “I bet you think that was a move. But I swear, I’m not that creative.”
I
smirked, thinking of course he was. “Right, Mr. Mayronne.”
His
tone was playful. “I’m not some sleazy guy. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t
like you.” His breath tickled my neck, making me shiver. Surely he could feel
that shudder against his own skin.
For
a second I thought he might kiss me, but he just stared at me, like he was
trying to read my mind. I felt my cheeks blushing again, thinking of how his
lips would feel against mine. It was hard to push those thoughts away with him
resting on top of me, but I had to. My father used to say that all work and no
play would have made someone a rich man. Even though part of me wanted to stay
exactly where I was, I said, “All right, Casanova. Quit goofing around, and let
me up, will you?”
His
lips close to my ear, he muttered something that sounded vaguely French.
When
he stood, he pulled me to my feet and plucked a strip of paper from my shirt.
“You
want to start washing the walls down?” I asked.
He
half-smiled, little crow’s feet forming at his eyes. “Yes ma’am.”
I
opened a tin of paint and stirred, thinking of the way his face looked only
inches above mine. I was about to pour the paint in the tray when I realized
I’d opened the blue instead of the buttercream.
~~~~
For
two hours we painted, the radio fading in and out as the clouds passed
overhead. Jack didn’t say much, just hummed along with the music like I wasn’t
even there. I wondered if I’d hurt his feelings but didn’t want to make things
more awkward by pressing him.
After
finishing the last wall, I stopped to take in the room. It was brighter all
right. The afternoon sun streamed through the window, making the pale
buttercream look more like a warm yellow.
Jack
was painting around the bookshelves, streaks of paint smeared
wall, and before long we were shoulder to shoulder. I pulled the last strip as
high as I could, a couple of feet above me, but lost my balance and crashed
into Jack.
“Whoa,”
he said, catching me in his arms.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t
be,” he said. “We should take a break anyway.” One of his hands had landed on
my waist. He placed his other hand in mine, singing along with the radio.
Before
I could protest, he was leading me around the island of furniture, nudging me
into a two-step. The curls of wallpaper rustled under our feet.
“We
should really finish before the walls dry,” I said.
His
hand squeezed mine. I could feel his breath on my skin.
“Don’t
make me call my union rep,” he said. “Even line cooks get fifteen minutes every
three hours.”
He
grinned when our bare feet thumped together.
“I’m
not very good at this,” I said, my cheeks burning.
“You’re
thinking too hard. And trying to lead.”
“Right,”
I whispered, stumbling against him again.
“Let
yourself go. One two, one two, one two.” He twirled me by the bookshelves that
I hoped to God we would not have to paint. “You got to feel the rhythm,
darlin’. You’re faking.”
“I’m
not faking.”
“Believe
me,” he said, his voice low, “I know when a gal’s faking.” His hand tightened
on my back, pressing me so close that the length of my arm was right against
his, my other hand resting on his shoulder.
I
liked the feeling of his arms around me.
When
he twirled me again, his hand tightened around mine, and he pulled me with such
purpose that I thought I’d crash into him. I over-corrected, and we tumbled to
the floor. Jack landed on top of me, his hands on either side of my shoulders,
his face an inch from mine. He smelled like cloves and sawdust. I tensed
beneath his weight, though the warmth of his chest against mine made my breath
catch in my throat in the most delightful way.
His
eyes, blue-green as glaciers, were steady on mine.
“Grace
is my middle name,” I said. “Probably should have warned you.”
He
smiled. “I bet you think that was a move. But I swear, I’m not that creative.”
I
smirked, thinking of course he was. “Right, Mr. Mayronne.”
His
tone was playful. “I’m not some sleazy guy. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t
like you.” His breath tickled my neck, making me shiver. Surely he could feel
that shudder against his own skin.
For
a second I thought he might kiss me, but he just stared at me, like he was
trying to read my mind. I felt my cheeks blushing again, thinking of how his
lips would feel against mine. It was hard to push those thoughts away with him
resting on top of me, but I had to. My father used to say that all work and no
play would have made someone a rich man. Even though part of me wanted to stay
exactly where I was, I said, “All right, Casanova. Quit goofing around, and let
me up, will you?”
His
lips close to my ear, he muttered something that sounded vaguely French.
When
he stood, he pulled me to my feet and plucked a strip of paper from my shirt.
“You
want to start washing the walls down?” I asked.
He
half-smiled, little crow’s feet forming at his eyes. “Yes ma’am.”
I
opened a tin of paint and stirred, thinking of the way his face looked only
inches above mine. I was about to pour the paint in the tray when I realized
I’d opened the blue instead of the buttercream.
~~~~
For
two hours we painted, the radio fading in and out as the clouds passed
overhead. Jack didn’t say much, just hummed along with the music like I wasn’t
even there. I wondered if I’d hurt his feelings but didn’t want to make things
more awkward by pressing him.
After
finishing the last wall, I stopped to take in the room. It was brighter all
right. The afternoon sun streamed through the window, making the pale
buttercream look more like a warm yellow.
Jack
was painting around the bookshelves, streaks of paint smeared
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