Keep

My head swiveled back so fast I’m impressed I didn’t get a kink. “What do you mean ‘what first?’ I have to work.”

“I’m helping.” The grin was back full force, and it was directed at me. The heat of his stare was staggering in the way it made me want to both launch myself into his arms and then run for dear life.

“You do realize I clean people’s hotel rooms?”

He copied my stance. “You do realize I have two working hands?”

“Alright then.” I grabbed the clipboard and slammed it against his chest. “I’ll grab the cart, and we’ll just go at it.”

“Sounds dirty.”

“Trust me.” I sighed. “It will be.” Just not the way he was probably used to.

Chapter Eleven

Zane

THREE HOURS OF FLUSHING toilets, and I was suddenly thankful she only had a five-hour shift this morning. It wasn’t like I’d planned on going to work with her like a total loser. But I’d driven to the set, taken one look at all the extras, consumed at least a half bag of marshmallows, then found myself passing the resort.

After a few questions at the front desk, I was directed to the back office where Fallon would be, and the rest was history.

Well, sort of.

I ‘d just stripped the bed when I heard her scream.

My feet tangled in the sheets nearly sending me against the nightstand before I freed myself and ran into the other room.

“What’s wrong?” Adrenaline spiked through my system as I sized up the situation. Fallon’s eyes were wide and then she did a little dance and washed her hands about five times before shuddering.

I peeked around the corner of the table. Clinging to the wall like a giant deflated slug was a used condom. I smirked. “Tell me you touched it.”

“With my bare hands!” She squealed. “I was picking up the chair, and something was stuck to it and—” She made a gagging noise.

“Is that how it got on the wall?”

“I kind of threw it once I realized what it was.”

We both turned toward the wall where the used condom was currently slipping down to the floor.

“You should probably pick that up.” I mused in a haughty voice. “I mean this is your job.”

“Screw you! I’m not touching it again!” She shook her head. “Do you even realize how many used condoms I’ve been subject to?”

“Hopefully none of them your own.”

Her face flamed red.

“Or no judgment if they were.” I held up my hands.

“Here.” She shoved a roll of paper towels into my hand. “You want to help? Do the dirty work.”

I pulled off about a billion paper towels and knelt. “Please tell me this isn’t another elderly couple.”

“Honeymooners.” She called from somewhere in the large room. “Just toss it in the trash can.”

“No. Really?” I retorted, “And here I was going to keep it as a trophy!”

“Very funny.” Fallon walked back into the room while I tossed the condom in the trash. Her hair was pulled up into a tight bun on the top of her head, her black glasses, looked way cuter on her than the monstrosity that had been hanging out on her face yesterday.

In fact, if I was into nerds, she’d be a hot one, like the hot librarian all the kids stare at when they think she’s not looking.

“What?” Fallon touched her face. “Is s-something wrong?”

“You stutter when I stare at you.” I stared harder, mainly because I liked to stare at nice things, so what? Her face was interesting, completely free of makeup except for that damn chapstick and a bit of mascara.

Hell, I probably wore more makeup performing than she’d ever worn in her entire life.

“Zane?” Her Counting Crows gray shirt rose over her narrow hips, exposing some flesh. “What’s going on?”

I took a step toward her.

She backed up.

I took another step.

And her back hit the wall.

“I lost my chapstick.”

“Then you should go to the store.” She patted my chest. “Didn’t we just have this conversation a few days ago?”

“You should make me some more.”

“That wasn’t part of our deal.”

“It should be.”

She had nice lips. Fallon sucked at her teeth, biting into her plump bottom lip as it trembled under the pressure. I’d always been a lip guy. Most guys were all about the tits and ass.

Not me.

Lips.

The mouth.

As it formed words, inhaled, exhaled, the little pant girls tended to make when they were nervous, when I was too close, the exact sound she was making while I unabashedly stared her down.

“You can’t just keep changing the terms of our agreement.” She murmured.

“You have a pretty mouth.” I declared taking a step back. Because for a second, I was tempted to kiss her, my new friend, the only friend willing to take me around Seaside so I could actually get my ass back to work. “Sorry, I tend to fixate on objects.”

She pressed a hand to her forehead. “That’s, fine.”

“I may write a song about it.” No chance in hell was I writing a song about her mouth because songs were emotional, a part of myself. Writing about something I wanted while being able to access it, well in my mind it was like a drug addict penning a song about cocaine, not the smartest move. Music has a delicious way of making you want. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">