Warmth curls up my neck and I’m not sure if it’s from the guilt of blackmailing him or from the dreams I’ve had since Sunday of us kissing again.
His hair is wet so he must have been the person in the shower earlier. My heart flutters at the damp sight and the way one charcoal strand hangs over those blue eyes. And those eyes are now trained on the mirror because he can still see my... My hands fly to my bottom and I try to yank the material down farther.
“Don’t stop,” he says in this low tone that vibrates against my insides. “It’s sexy as hell you’re checking yourself out.”
Fire burns my cheeks. “I was not checking myself out.”
“Yeah, you were, but as I said—don’t stop. I’ve seen a lot of asses and yours is one of the best, though to make a proper evaluation, I’d have to see the whole thing.”
He winks. And smiles. That smile. The wicked one. My mouth slackens and while part of me is absolutely frozen with embarrassment, another stupid part of me melts.
With a small wooden box in her hands, Olivia enters the kitchen. “What do you need to see?”
“Emily’s ass,” Oz answers as if this is normal conversation. “Emily was checking hers out in the mirror and I told her that I agreed that it looked nice.”
“I never said that was what I was doing,” I say as fast as I can. “I was looking at the skirt and I was wondering if it was too short and—”
“It’s just right.” Olivia studies me like I’m a runway model. “Those clothes belong to Violet. Izzy ran by there to pick you up some stuff. Violet’s taller than you, so it would be too short on her. Besides, you’re a McKinley. We have fine asses. Be proud of your body, honey, it sags with time.”
“I was not checking out my ass.”
“Yes, you were.” Oz pulls a mug out of the cupboard and fills it with coffee. “And it was fine for you to do it. As I said, nice ass.”
Oz hands Olivia the steaming mug as she sits at the table. She accepts it with a nod of gratitude. “We might have to prohibit ass conversations. Emily’s redder than a fire truck.”
“I am not.” I so am.
“I’m considering telling everyone we’ll have to be conservative while she’s here,” she continues like I hadn’t spoken. “I was even weighing whether or not to bake cookies.”
Conservative? Olivia wears a pair of glued-on jeans and a white camisole that shows the outline of her bra. She has the blue silk scarf on her head again and today her gold dangly earrings reach her shoulders. From the obituary, I learned that she’s in her fifties and she’s one of those women who boasts fifty better than most people own their twenties.
“Don’t let her bake cookies,” Oz warns me. “She burns them and then gets pissed off when we use them as weapons.”
“Ingrate,” Olivia mutters as she blows on the coffee before taking a sip. I’ve never seen someone drink it black.
Their banter is easy and comfortable and it makes me hugely uncomfortable to be the third wheel in the scenario. Using my hands to shield my butt isn’t helping.
Olivia tears the strip off a carton of doughnuts, lifts the lid, then slides the box to me. “Breakfast is served.”
I choose the seat at the end of the table and gather the limited material of the skirt underneath me to prevent my privates from showing, then indulge in the white, powdery goodness.
The chair next to me squeaks and scrapes the floor as Oz yanks it out and sits. He kicks out his legs and crosses his arms over his chest. I automatically tuck my feet under my chair. This boy does not stay within his personal space.
Oz glances at me out of the corner of his eye and does an obvious double-take. The kind that causes me to look down to see if something is riding up or unbuttoned. Everything appears to be in order. “What?”
“Nothing.” Yet his eyes flicker at me again.
“Not nothing. What?”
“You have powder near your mouth.”
My tongue darts out and I quickly lick at the sweetness, but he stares as if he’s drawn to my mouth so the sugar still has to be there. His eyes grow kind of dark and I flush with the memory of his lips pressing against my neck.
Napkinless, I raise my hand and rub the left side of my mouth and I wait for a sign of approval.
“It’s to the right,” he says in a deep voice.
I wipe and he sighs. “Lower.”