She was laughing so hard she leaned into him and smacked him on the tummy. Head against his collarbone, she patted him again and pushed off his pec. Shaking her head, she bit her lips, then said, “Next weekend. Clothes, haircut, and no cucumbers.”
“Would a carrot make you feel more comfortable?” He gnawed on the edge of his tongue, taming his wicked grin. “Less realistic, honestly, but cucumbers can be intimidating.”
“No vegetables,” she said, nibbling that bottom lip before turning the knob and looking back at him with a wildly flirty grin he’d never been on the receiving end of from her.
“Banana?”
“Tomorrow, six a.m., right here, you pick the workout. Next weekend, I will pick out clothes thatIwant, while you do your own shopping.”
As she pulled the door open and walked away, he said low enough she probably couldn’t hear, “It’s a date.”
By the time he hobbled into the kitchen, Jeremy was at the kitchen table, laptop out, and he heard Trace reach the landing and keep on running.
Jeremy smiled as he neared. “Sounds like you’re ready to start taking the bull by the horns,” he said, lowering his reading glasses and stretching his arms wide.
Sounds like? What all had he heard? “Something like that,” he admitted, keeping it vague.
“When Trace saw my blood sugar, she moved in all those dang weights and mats, and got us all on track,” he said, patting his tummy that was flatter than it had been even a month ago.
“She’s a force,” Cole said as he made his way to the fridge. Maybe she didn’t realize it, but it sounded like she was well on her way to finding her confidence again. Suddenly ravenous, he pulled out some egg bites—one of the lower carb additions to the bakery that Ellen was testing—and shoved them in the microwave.
Hell, he probably ought to fix something for Trace.
“Do you know if Trace has eaten yet?”
Without batting an eye, Jeremy nodded. “Who do you think is feeding Ellen all those ideas on low carb foods?”
After wolfing down a quick breakfast, he made his way upstairs. Trace was already done in the shower and closed in her bedroom. Good. At least a few minutes to clear his head before accidentally talking about her panties again.
He climbed in the shower, grateful as hell to have full use of his body parts, even if it still hurt like hell and not everything had back its full motion or strength, but no more damn slings or boots. He scrubbed his hair and beard, carefully, only lifting his arm as high as he was comfortable with, gaining a millimeter a week, at best.
The mirror had fogged over, and he ducked down to get a good look under the steam. He did look like hell. Not his best look, the unkept scruff. He opened a drawer to look for scissors.
A friendly cluster of taps on the door interrupted his search. He fisted his hand on the knot holding up his towel and leaned over to release the lock.
Trace was wearing a pair of jeans that spectacularly showed off her thighs, with a simple but sexy pink t-shirt and a wide black belt. Hair still damp from her shower, her curls were outrageous. How did she not realize she was hot as hell?
“Hey,” he said, leaning back and holding the towel securely.
“Hi,” she said, nodding beyond him toward the heart of the bathroom, subtly asking for an invitation inside. “Sore?”
“I don’t think I’m going to be able to walk tomorrow,” he laughed and backed up a step to let her in. “In a good way. Mostly.”
She opened the drawer he’d just been searching, immediately finding the scissors he’d been unable to find. She patted the vanity counter and said, “Sit.”
He laughed and did as she said, checking that his towel was secure before moving his hands and bracing them on the counter. “What’s on your mind?”
She snapped the scissors a few times and waggled her eyebrows. “The beard’s got to go.”
He brushed his fingers over the matted junkiness and feigned offense. “Not Beardy. I was just starting to bond with him.”
“Beardy has potential, but he’s a little scraggly. You might consider starting over again if you want to level him up.” She tilted her head and studied him. “You would look good with a full beard.”
“Trust me, I don’t,” he muttered, looking down and drawing his gaze up to gauge her reaction. “I must have been seventeen or eighteen the last time you saw me trying to rock the patchy stubble. It is thicker now.”
She tugged it gently and nibbled her lip. “I do love that five o’clock shadow look. But Beardy looks like hell. No offense.”
“None taken,” he admitted, looking up as she came at him with shears from hell. “Bye bye Beardy.”
