“You’re gross,” she taunts with an eye roll.
I’m twenty-seven years old and a business owner, but God help me, the teenage boy that lives in my brain chooses this moment to take over. Dropping the rest of my s’more onto a napkin, I peel off the top cracker and smudge my fingers into the gooey, sugary, sticky mess.
And then I chase a beautiful woman around the room.
“This? This is gross?” I hold up my sticky fingers. “Is this what you mean?” I ask as I reach for her.
She squeals and runs, putting a round table between us. I fake left, then move right, catching her easily.
“If you get marshmallow in my hair, so help me, Baby Jesus, I’ll kill you.”
“Never. I won’t touch your hair, I swear,” I say, and I mean it. Those short, spiky locks are my kryptonite. They’re just so damn sexy. So, no, I won’t make a mess of her hair. But other parts, hell yes. Taking my clean hand, I lift my oversized hoodie up and off her. She gasps as I cover her right breast with my sticky fingers. “Oops…”
“You better clean that up,” she warns.
And I do.
