me to finally get a shower. I creep out of the bedroom and down the hall quietly, more than a little surprised to see Cannon sitting at the table, wet hair, jeans only.
Guys may be oblivious to, well, almost everything, but you can’t tell me they don’t know what the shirtless, barefoot thing does to a woman.
They know. Sneaky bastards.
Bare-chested Cannon won’t soon be forgotten, my brain working overtime to take in, preserve, and memorize each chiseled nuance of his magnificent torso. Not overly muscular, but more than toned and defined, he should never hide behind pesky shirts. There’s a very light dusting of dark hair between clearly outlined pecs, leading a line down to… Oh, happy, happy trail.
Anyway, I should probably speak out loud now.
“Didn’t feel like going out?” They better have invited him.
He bounces his shoulders and barely shakes his head, rolling a beer bottle on the table between his hands. “Not really my thing. I’m more of a homebody. Conner asleep?”
I chuckle. “Yeah, he didn’t last long. I’d have sacked out with him but I’m long overdue for a shower.”
He stands and casually strides toward me and for a moment I can’t breathe, every muscle in my body tightening and my skin tingling like I’m being poked with tiny needles. He reaches around me to throw away his empty bottle, excusing himself, yet I don’t budge an inch.
“Hold still,” he croons, reaching up to my face and gathering….and eyelash. “Thumb or forefinger?”
“Huh?”
Pinching the two digits together, he explains. “Pick if your eyelash if gonna to be stuck to my thumb or forefinger. If you’re right, you close your eyes, make a wish and blow it away,” he smiles tenderly, having just introduced me to the most enthralling game I’ve ever played.
“Thumb,” I scarcely get out.
He opens his squeeze and sure enough, there’s my runaway eyelash attached to the pad of his thumb. He leans in, warm, fresh breath fanning my face. “Close your eyes and make a wish, then blow. But don’t tell me your wish.”
I do as he’s instructed, the spell broken and my eyes popping open when he chuckles. “Only one wish Lizzie. That was like a whole list.”
“Oh,” I mumble apologetically and dip my head.
“Hey now, no biggie. In fact, you seem tense,” he says in a low, docile voice, dangerously close to my ear. “I bet you’re exhausted, always doing for everybody else. You go take that nice, long, hot shower.”
If Jarrett could see me right now, he’d be laughing his ass off and I’d never hear the end of it. My tongue’s swollen in my mouth, unable to form words, and I fear greatly that when I finally move, my trembling knees will buckle.
I’m starting to remember why I’ve never dated. Bossy, bitchy, motherly, or invisible, I have all those down pat. Whatever the hell this is, not so much. If I do open my mouth, I can pretty much guarantee that whatever I’ll say will come out stuttered and he’ll add bumbling idiot to his list of Liz-isms.
“Go on.” He smiles, giving me a small nudge at my back. “And I hope your wish comes true,” he winks. “You hungry? I could fix ya something while you’re in there.”
Like my head’s too big for my body, I awkwardly bobble it no and stumble to the row of drawers in the wall, digging for something to wear to bed. Deciding on a t-shirt and shorts, I attempt to nimbly slip into the bathroom and shut the door. If nimble is now defined as gawky, clumsy, and with the grace of a blind, three-legged elephant…I may have pulled it off. Alone at last, no one’s scrutiny or questions upon me, I slide the door closed, collapsing into a puddle on the floor.
What have I done? I’ve knowingly invited a walking, talking panty shredder onto my bus! How am I supposed to run a band, a family, take care of Conner, all while trying not to spontaneously combust?
I’d ask a girlfriend for advice, except I don’t have any of those. I have the
Guys may be oblivious to, well, almost everything, but you can’t tell me they don’t know what the shirtless, barefoot thing does to a woman.
They know. Sneaky bastards.
Bare-chested Cannon won’t soon be forgotten, my brain working overtime to take in, preserve, and memorize each chiseled nuance of his magnificent torso. Not overly muscular, but more than toned and defined, he should never hide behind pesky shirts. There’s a very light dusting of dark hair between clearly outlined pecs, leading a line down to… Oh, happy, happy trail.
Anyway, I should probably speak out loud now.
“Didn’t feel like going out?” They better have invited him.
He bounces his shoulders and barely shakes his head, rolling a beer bottle on the table between his hands. “Not really my thing. I’m more of a homebody. Conner asleep?”
I chuckle. “Yeah, he didn’t last long. I’d have sacked out with him but I’m long overdue for a shower.”
He stands and casually strides toward me and for a moment I can’t breathe, every muscle in my body tightening and my skin tingling like I’m being poked with tiny needles. He reaches around me to throw away his empty bottle, excusing himself, yet I don’t budge an inch.
“Hold still,” he croons, reaching up to my face and gathering….and eyelash. “Thumb or forefinger?”
“Huh?”
Pinching the two digits together, he explains. “Pick if your eyelash if gonna to be stuck to my thumb or forefinger. If you’re right, you close your eyes, make a wish and blow it away,” he smiles tenderly, having just introduced me to the most enthralling game I’ve ever played.
“Thumb,” I scarcely get out.
He opens his squeeze and sure enough, there’s my runaway eyelash attached to the pad of his thumb. He leans in, warm, fresh breath fanning my face. “Close your eyes and make a wish, then blow. But don’t tell me your wish.”
I do as he’s instructed, the spell broken and my eyes popping open when he chuckles. “Only one wish Lizzie. That was like a whole list.”
“Oh,” I mumble apologetically and dip my head.
“Hey now, no biggie. In fact, you seem tense,” he says in a low, docile voice, dangerously close to my ear. “I bet you’re exhausted, always doing for everybody else. You go take that nice, long, hot shower.”
If Jarrett could see me right now, he’d be laughing his ass off and I’d never hear the end of it. My tongue’s swollen in my mouth, unable to form words, and I fear greatly that when I finally move, my trembling knees will buckle.
I’m starting to remember why I’ve never dated. Bossy, bitchy, motherly, or invisible, I have all those down pat. Whatever the hell this is, not so much. If I do open my mouth, I can pretty much guarantee that whatever I’ll say will come out stuttered and he’ll add bumbling idiot to his list of Liz-isms.
“Go on.” He smiles, giving me a small nudge at my back. “And I hope your wish comes true,” he winks. “You hungry? I could fix ya something while you’re in there.”
Like my head’s too big for my body, I awkwardly bobble it no and stumble to the row of drawers in the wall, digging for something to wear to bed. Deciding on a t-shirt and shorts, I attempt to nimbly slip into the bathroom and shut the door. If nimble is now defined as gawky, clumsy, and with the grace of a blind, three-legged elephant…I may have pulled it off. Alone at last, no one’s scrutiny or questions upon me, I slide the door closed, collapsing into a puddle on the floor.
What have I done? I’ve knowingly invited a walking, talking panty shredder onto my bus! How am I supposed to run a band, a family, take care of Conner, all while trying not to spontaneously combust?
I’d ask a girlfriend for advice, except I don’t have any of those. I have the
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