Not Your Fault

I toss my bag under the front counter and shrug. “I could help you if you want.”

“That would be awesome.” Kris leads me into the dance room, where the polished wooden floor is now cloth-covered and full of paint buckets, paint trays and two paint rollers—one clean and unused. He hands me the new roller and folds his hand into a finger gun, pointing it at me. “You deserve a raise, my lady.”

We work in mostly silence, painting the dance room walls a shiny black, a color that looks so much better than the old dried-blood-red that was on the walls before. He says he always thought black looked best in a dance room with mostly mirrors, and that the rest of the gym will be painted navy blue.

Kris thanks me for helping him—the third time he’s thanked me since I started rolling paint on the walls over two hours ago. “It’s no problem,” I tell him, dunking my roller back into the paint tray. “I’m technically an employee here so it’s my job to help. Plus, I need the workout and this is killing my arms.”

“We could strap some five pound barbells on the end of your roller stick if you want a better workout,” Kris snorts, painting the higher parts of the wall that I can’t reach. I duck under him and his roller to paint the lower part of the wall next to him. When my roller goes dry, I look around the half-painted weight room.

“Do you plan on getting all this painting done tonight?” I ask.

He drags his roller across the wall and looks at our progress. “I’m not sure. I guess we can just paint until we’re too tired to go on. You can stop now if you’re worn out.”

“Excuse you?” I ask in a mocking voice. “I am nowhere near being worn out, Mister Bossman.”

He smiles, that smile only Kris Payne can make, and says in a voice just as sarcastic, “Oh yeah? Why don’t you try painting up to the ceiling, Miss I-just-paint-what-I-can-reach.” To drive his point home, he reloads his roller with paint and then slaps it to the wall, painting the spot just above my head, all without breaking eye contact with me.

For a second I feel like we’re in high school again, flirting and picking on each other, knowing there won’t be consequences. Maybe that’s what makes me take my roller and press it to his shoulder, lifting my eyebrows in a what are you gonna do about it expression while I drag the roller down his arm, leaving a trail of wet black paint.

Kris’s mouth falls open as he looks at his painted arm. “I can’t believe you did that,” he says.

I hold my paint roller to my mouth and blow on the end as if it’s a smoking gun. “Well, believe it. This girl doesn’t mess around.”

His paint roller is cold when it presses to my arm the next instant, dragging all the way to my elbow before I shriek and jump, slamming my back into the freshly painted wall.

“Ah, shit!” I pull away and crane my neck to see the damage done to my shirt. Kris bursts into a satisfied laughter, clearly thinking he’s won this round.

“Don’t you dare laugh at me, Kris Vernon Payne.” I say his hated middle name with emphasis as I press my roller to the front of his white shirt and roll it up his chest. He lifts an eyebrow and paints my other arm. Pressing my lips into a thin line, I swipe my roller across his other arm.

His eyes meet mine and he lowers his head, his eyes narrowing into attack mode that makes him look so fucking sexy, my insides turn to mush. My roller falls to the floor. I bite my lip and take off running, jumping over the paint buckets and through the door that leads into the main gym. Kris follows me, his footsteps lighter and quicker than mine.

I reach the opposite side of the gym, my hands slamming into the corner walls. Kris lets out a deep, faux menacing laugh. Warm fingers grab my wrist and slowly turn me around. “You’re trapped now, sweetheart,” he says, pressing the paint roller to my neck. Cool, wet paint sticks to my skin and I shudder.

“Gross,” I whisper, pulling my head to the side. This only makes him slide the paint roller further up my neck, cocking his head to the side as he watches me struggle to find a way out of this.

But it’s so much fun I’m not sure I want out.

“These are deplorable working conditions,” I say, somewhat out of breath although I’m not sure why. I didn’t run very far. His cocky grin makes it hard to keep a pretend serious face, but I try anyway. “I should sue you. Once this paint dries, it’ll be a bitch to get off.”

His eyes narrow in frighteningly sexy way. “Well then let’s not give it time to dry,” he whispers, his lips just inches from mine. In one swift motion, drops the paint roller and slips his arm under my knees, lifting me off the floor. I let out a squeal, instinctively throwing my arms around his neck for balance. He spins around and carries us toward the locker rooms, stepping over empty boxes and paint supplies.

My heart pounds so hard I bet he can hear it. He’s probably going to drop me off at the showers and tell me to clean off, so I shouldn’t be so nervous. But my stomach twists into excited knots when he bypasses the door to the women’s locker room and ducks inside the men’s door. I’ve never been in here before.

Kris walks into the first shower stall. His tongue sticks out as he concentrates on balancing me in his arms and turning on the hot water. When he finally finds a way to twist the water lever, warm water bursts out of the faucet, splashing us in the face. I slam my eyes closed and bury my face into his chest to avoid it.

Without saying a word, Kris bends and sets me back on my feet. The water sprays between us, soaking our clothes and hair. I reach up and pull the hair tie out of my ponytail. Kris holds his palm under the automated soap dispenser on the wall and then lathers his hands together, making them foamy. He presses his hand to my neck and rubs off the wet paint, careful not to pull my hair.

My head twists to the side, begging for more of his touch. I reach up and rub my hands over his biceps, the wet paint peeling off with each swipe of my hand. Kris washes the paint off my arms and shoulders. Chills prickle down my arms at the touch of his rough hands on my skin. The warm water causes the small shower to fill with steam, making his gorgeous face appear blurry as if I’m dreaming. Maybe I am, I don’t care.

I stand on my toes and grab his shoulder, pulling myself high enough to rub off the paint on his forehead. His hands wrap around my waist, pressing into my lower back and pulling me closer to him. Without thinking, my hand slips under his shirt. The sensatio

n of his hard stomach on my fingers makes my hands move on their own accord…slipping up higher from his waist, to his belly button to his chest.

Kris releases me and grabs his shirt, pulling it off and hanging it from the towel hook on the wall. I swallow. His chest is even more glorious in person: golden tan, bulges in all the right places, and just a hint of stubble across his chest. I have to touch him. My fingers slide across his chest, stopping at his shoulders.

With a smirk, Kris hooks his fingers inside the waistband of my yoga pants and pulls, making me crash into him. He slides out of my pants and places his hands on either side of my hips, slowly lifting them up my sides, taking my tank top with him. I raise my arms and allow him to take off my shirt. Without so much as a tentative eyebrow lift to ask my permission, Kris unhooks my bra and slips it off as if he does this every day. My clothes cover his shirt on the towel hook.

I’m thankful the steam covers the pulsing in my chest.