“You don’t sound convinced.”
He shrugged, and then set the roller down to stand in the middle of the living room, examining our handiwork: we’d managed to get his whole living room and kitchen done. “I like it.”
I smiled. “You do?”
He turned in a slow circle, pivoting on his good leg. “Yeah, I do. It’s peaceful. Quieting.” He glanced at me with a grin. “But not girly.”
I grinned back. “Well, good. I’m glad to know I haven’t lost my touch.”
His gaze sharpened, grin going wolfish. “No risk of that, I don’t think.”
I blushed, hearing the sly innuendo in his tone and the look on his face. “Lucas.”
He chuckled. “What? I’m saying you’ve got a good eye for color.”
I snorted. “Yeah, that’s exactly what you were saying.”
“If you heard somethin’ else, well…that’s on you—your interpretation of it.”
Ohhh, is that how it was going to be? Two could play at that game.
I pretended to feel an ache in my back, setting my brush and tray down, intentionally facing away from him as I bent over. Then, slowly, luxuriously, I stretched, bringing my arms over my head, palms up in a basic yoga stretch, leaning backward and then forward again, this time bending at the waist.
I heard Lucas cough, then I straightened and turned to see him suddenly and busily rolling the excess paint off the roller.
“What?” I asked. “Something wrong? Tickle in your throat?” I had to fight back a grin at the discomfited expression on his face.
He glared at me. “You did that on purpose.”
“Did what on purpose?”
“That business.” He waved a paint-splattered hand at me. “You know what I mean.”
I endeavored to look clueless. “I do not.”
He snorted, dropped the handle of the paint roller. And then bent over at the waist to retrieve it, sticking his butt out. “Ohh, well, excuse me,” he said in a high-pitched, breathy voice. “I just…dropped this. Let me just pick it up.”
I couldn’t help cackling at him. “I have never in my life said or done anything even remotely like that. Nor do I sound like that.”
“You’re tellin’ me that’s just how you stretch.”
“Yes.”
“Bullshit.”
“It is not!” I protested, lying through my teeth. “I was just innocently stretching the…kinks…out of my back. If you saw something else, that’s on you.”
His turn to laugh, then. “Oh, I see. Payback, is it?”
I put on an arch, haughty expression. “I have no idea what you mean.”
He had the paint tray in his hands and was crouched, somewhat stiffly and awkwardly, prying the lid off the paint can. With only the briefest pause, he glanced up at me, smirked, and then dipped his fingers in the paint and flicked them at me. Since I was standing only a few feet away, I got splattered all over the face with paint.
“Lucas Badd! I donotthink so!” I snapped, irate since I now had paint in my hair.
“Oops.” He grinned at me, taunting me to retaliate.
I still had my paintbrush in hand—I whipped it in his direction, sending paint splattering him. He roared a laugh, staggering to his feet as I chased him, flicking paint at him until he was even more splattered with droplets and gobs of pale green than I was. Abruptly, he stopped trying to get away from me, pivoted, and his mammoth hand closed around my small, delicate wrist—and just like that I was face to face with all those inches of brawny, bearish brute strength, his deep brown eyes piercing, his scent enveloping me. His hand was warm and rough and implacable around mine, unbreakable and brutally strong, yet still gentle. He firmly and easily plucked the paintbrush from me, and with a hot slow grin, dabbed me on the nose with it. The bristles were rough and ticklish and wet, the paint cold and sticky.
