“You’re an Almond Joy thief.” A laugh tumbled from his lips. “I’d forgotten about that until just now. Your old man is a riot.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Yeah, well, I’m going to figure out a way to get back at him, because I didn’t get a single Almond Joy all night.” She made a pouty face, sticking out her lower lip.
He had the urge to kiss that pouty mouth.
With his dick.
If his fucking head kept this up, he’d end up hard as stone.
“Eat quickly, caveman. I’ve got to do the haunted walk soon, and I can’t do your makeup while you’re chewing.”
He popped the candy bar into his mouth.
“What are you doing up here all the time, anyway?” she asked as he ate. “Woodworking? Painting?”
“I haven’t done either in a long time.” Grant had taken a shop class in ninth grade and had fallen in love with working with his hands and building things.
Roddy Remington ran the marina, and as a teenager, Grant had spent summers working there with Brant, repairing boats and fixing docks. Brant was now a sought-after boatbuilder, and he owned a marine equipment supply company. Grant had helped him out whenever he was in town, and now he was working full-time with Brant while he figured out his next step. But woodworking had never been something Grant craved, like painting. He’d learned to paint as a kid from a family friend, and by the time he was a teenager, he’d sold as many paintings as he’d had time to paint. But ever since his accident, most things he used to do made him edgy. Hell, the thought of doing anything other than readying for a mission annoyed the hell out of him, which was just one reason he needed to get off the island before he dragged everyone else down with him.
“Why not? You were so good at both.”
Why do you care? He gritted his teeth. She didn’t deserve that kind of comment. “I’ve been a little busy this past year.”
“Oh, right. Your leg. Sorry.”
Everyone else danced around the topic of his leg, but Jules had a way of accepting other people’s injuries or weaknesses and treating them as if they weren’t differences or deficits, but just another part of who they were, like a scar.
“But you’re not busy now. Tilt your head back a little.” She began putting makeup around his eyes. “I know you’re working with Brant at the marina, so technically you are doing woodworking, but what else are you doing?”
“What is this, an inquisition?”
“No. I just think you should paint. You’re too talented to give it up. Don’t you miss it? I would miss it. I do a bunch of do-it-yourself projects with my customers, and I’d miss that if I stopped. It’s one of my favorite parts of my job. I love any kind of project.” She began applying makeup to his cheeks. “Soon we’re making Thanksgiving wreaths, and then we’re on to Christmas decorations. I can’t wait. This place could be super cute with your paintings on the walls. Can’t you paint for a little while each day?”
“Jesus, Jules. Who am I? Bob Ross? Can we just get on with this makeup shit before I change my mind?”
She pressed her lips into a fine line and pulled the front of her costume away from her body, peering into it. She wrinkled her nose, looking too damn cute. “I was hoping there was more candy in there to take away your grumpiness, but no such luck. Guess you’re stuck with little ol’ me.”
She ran her fingers through his hair, pulling it away from his face, and touched his cheek. “Everyone misses this face. I miss this face. It’s a really nice face,” she said, as if they had the kind of relationship where they complimented each other. “Thank you for saying you’ll come tonight. I know Bellamy will be thrilled, but it makes me happy, too. Now I’ll shut up and make you a frightful zombie.”
Twenty minutes of pure, unadulterated torture.
That’s what having Jules Steele between his legs and her perky breasts in his face was like, made worse when she got sick of bending over and sat on his right leg to finish the zombie makeup job. By the time she was done, he was half-hard, his every muscle corded tight, and she was oblivious, flitting around on those sky-high heels, chattering about how much fun he was going to have at the party.
Before his amputation, his idea of fun involved far less clothing. Their ideas of fun lived at opposite ends of the spectrum.
She stowed the makeup in her case, and her brow furrowed. “Did you hear that?”
“What?” My dirty thoughts?
“A cat. There it goes again. A meow.” She walked toward his bedroom.
Damn it. He strode past her and opened the bedroom door enough for the cat to run out, and he ran headfirst into the couch. He bounced back and darted around to the other side of it.
“You have a cat! Poor thing. Are you okay?” She crouched with her hand out as he closed the bedroom door. “Come here, baby. What’s its name?”
“I call him Crash, but he’s not mine. He’s like a loiterer who refuses to leave.” The cat peered cautiously around the couch, and Jules began making kissing noises and wiggling her fingers. “He showed up one day outside. He was skin and bones, and every time I tried to catch him, he’d run away, and every damn time he ran headfirst into something—the deck post, a tree, the steps.”
Jules inched forward. “Aw. Is he blind? Come on, baby, come here.”
“No. I had him checked out. He’s just a spaz who doesn’t look where he’s going. He won’t come to you. He never does. It took me three weeks of leaving food out to get him to come up on the porch, and then one day he just ran inside the house when I walked in. Now I can’t get him to leave. He races around all the damn time like he’s looking for something, and when he does sleep, it’s on my pillow, but he won’t let me hold him.” As he said it, the cat walked tentatively toward her.
Jules sank down on her butt, and Crash touched her leg with his nose, then stared at her, sniffed her again, and climbed into her lap. Way to make a liar out of me, asshole.
Jules cradled Crash and nuzzled against his head, smiling up at Grant. “It must be my magic pixie spell.”
Grant was learning just how strong her spell was. “You can have him.”
“I’m not taking your cat. You two need each other.”
“Like I need a hole in the head. We ought to go.”
She kissed Crash’s head. “Goodbye, little one. You need a helmet so you don’t end up with brain damage.”
Crash licked Jules’s cheek, and Grant swore he smirked as he sauntered off her lap, then darted into the second bedroom.
Jules pushed to her feet and picked up the makeup case. On their way out the door, he grabbed his leather jacket and draped it around her.
Worry rose in her eyes. “My wings.”
“They’re fine.”
“But—”
“Jesus, Pix.” The endearment came so easily, it threw him for a loop, but he didn’t have time to give it any thought or Jules would freeze. “It’s cold out there, and you’re running around half-naked. You can take the jacket off in your Jeep, but I’m not letting you get sick because of me. Your brothers would give me hell for that.” And far worse if they knew what has been going through my mind this whole time.