Eat Crow (Cheap Thrills 6)

Holding my hands up to show him the amount of paint I’d gotten on them, I shrugged. “Who knows, but it gets everywhere. Why don’t you have a shower, and I’ll put the food on?”

Such an innocent question, but one that got genuine panic from him.

“What? I can do it when I’m done or before I go in.”

“I bought one of those already cooked chickens from the store on the way back from getting the paint, and I’m probably okay to put frozen fries in without killing us.”

Looking relieved, he moved toward the door. “I won’t be long, but maybe put them in the oven in about ten minutes.”

And with that, he was gone, leaving Prince and me to stare at the work. The tape was still up because it was only the first coat, but I liked it already.

“It’s going to look awesome once we pull the tape off and put the wooden partition between the colors, kiddo. What do you think? Suits the fireplace and light fixture, right?”

Ever the mute, Prince just blinked at me.

“That’s what I thought. You’re welcome to give an opinion at some point, though, so feel free to hit me with what you really think.”

To that, he lifted his leg like a ballerina, toe pointed out and everything, and stuck his head between his legs.

“Well, that’s rude.”

Looking away from what was a private moment between him and his crotch, I turned in a circle one more time to take in the impact of the work we’d done and stopped when I found a patch that I’d missed.

“How did that get there?”

Picking up the brush from the pan on the floor, I reached up and painted over it. Unfortunately, this also meant I was now committed to making sure there weren’t any other spots that needed extra work as well, so I went around touching them up so that we had a good first coat down.

Finally, I took a step back to look around again and stood right in the stupid pan of paint I’d left behind me.

Why would someone do something so stupid? Because I was too lazy to walk five steps to the right, that’s why.

I was only wearing socks, too, so I felt the paint almost immediately and screamed.

This was a disaster. If I took my foot out, I’d get paint all over the plastic sheeting, which Prince and Doyle would then track through the house.

What if it didn’t dry overnight and I walked through it in the morning? I was going to have to take my sock off and drop it in the pan until I could get a bag to throw it into.

It might have sounded like a dramatic reaction, but the frustrated, wailing scream that came out of me was warranted given the circumstances.

I was so focused on my tragedy that I didn’t even hear Logan running down the stairs.

In fact, the only warning I had that he was reacting to my screams was when he ran into the living room—wearing only a towel and with shampoo still in his hair—and his bellow, as he put his foot in the paint pan he’d been using on the other side of the room.

I looked up just in time to see physics work against him.

His forward momentum meant that the pan skidded forward, separating his legs as it shot forward, leaving a trail of paint behind it. Then, his arms came out and windmilled around to try and balance him, but as he put the now paint-covered foot down, it slipped on the plastic sheeting.

With the toes of his paint-free foot on the ground, his blue-footed leg came up into the air before he fell onto his back. Almost like it happened in slow motion, his body hit the ground, the towel came undone, and I stood open-mouthed as his penis lifted then dropped back down.

I wish I could say there was a noise that accompanied it, but the air leaving his lungs followed by the gasping breath he took and his limbs all connecting with the ground kind of drowned it out.

Nothing would ever drown out the visual I’d likely have for the rest of my life of his dick dancing, though. Oh hell no, nothing would get rid of that.

It was like watching those Newton’s Cradle balls hitting off one another on a desk.

Finally, once everything had stopped bouncing—outwardly, not inside my mind—he rolled onto his side and gasped, “Fucking hell, Bex. What the fuck?”

“That’s a lot of fucks.”