Page 123 of A Deal with the Bossy Devil

One caress led to another, and before I knew it, he’d unclasped his seatbelt and we were full-on making out like a couple of teenagers with pent-up hormones on prom night. Hands roamed, grips tightened, we touched and pulled until—

HONK.

I startled back, my head hitting the roof hard enough that I should have felt it. But my body was buzzing with too much static tension and heat to notice.

“Shit. Sorry. Elbow,” Adrien said, each word punctuated by a heavy exhale. He leaned back into his seat and raked a hand through his dark hair. After a few long breaths, his head turned in my direction, and he grinned. “Just can’t keep your hands off me, can you?”

“You’re the one that leaned in,” I protested, willing my chest to calm the fuck down. “I just closed the gap.”

And either I was seeing things, or his dimples and eyes were twinkling. “I was trying to put your seatbelt on.”

“I’m supposed to believe that?”

“It’s cool. I’m flattered.”

I wasn’t smiling. My mouth was allowed to curve upward without being accused of smiling.

He chuckled. “You know that one Jessica Simpson song?”

“Don’t you dare bring 90’s pop into this,” I demanded. Again, I was absolutelynotsmiling.

“Am Iirresistibleto you, Sanchez?”

I glowered at him.

He laughed, then leaned toward me again. “Sit properly for me.”

I sunk into the seat and glared at this dimple as he reached for my seatbelt, clasping it into place. My gaze didnotimmediately dip down to his mouth; my thighs didnotclench when I caught a whiff of his intoxicating cologne; and my chest absolutely didnotstutter when he pecked my cheek and shot me a wink.

“Where are we going anyway?” I asked, crossing my arms. My knees came up to the dashboard, and I decided right then and there that the only place I’d be looking for the remainder of the car ride was out the window.

“The weather’s kind of nice. We can start with a walk by the harbor, then go from there.”

That actually sounded really appealing until he instructed the car to blare Jessica Simpson, then proceeded to bellow the lyrics at the top of his lungs. I rolled my eyes so hard, it was a miracle they didn’t pop right out of their sockets.

I didnothave to press the back of my hand against my mouth to muffle my laugh. It wasnotfunny.

* * *

There was a teeny tiny chance that I was going to die, and it was all—of course—Adrien’s fault.

By the time we managed to crawl back to his car, the sun had started to set, and I’d forgotten what it felt like to properly breathe. My eyes were swollen from the tears, my cheeks felt bruised and sore, and my stomach muscles hurt so much I couldn’t stand straight. Every time I so much as glanced in Adrien’s general direction, I burst into a torturously fresh bout of hysterical laughter and inched closer to the sweet release of death.

He looked so fucking stupid.

We’d spent the majority of the late morning and afternoon walking along the harbor, drinking hot chocolate, eating, and banter-bickering about everything we could possibly banter-bicker about. I made fun of him every time someone came up to ask for a picture, he poked fun at me every time I choked on something trying not to laugh at his jokes. And then, it happened. We walked past one of those face-painting stands for kids.

He didn’t even hesitate.

One second, he was walking next to me, our laughter overlapping, steps swaying, hands brushing. The next, I was holding his bagel while he plopped himself onto the too-small plastic stool, pointed at a large tube of blue body paint on the table, and instructed the makeup artist to, and I quote, “Go crazy.”

The lady seemed confused (and maybe a little concerned), and triple-checked with him to make sure that he did indeed want to be painted a bright, eye-catching cobalt blue. He took off his jacket and watch, then said, “Yup. Arms, neck, face. Let’s do this.”

And that wasn’t even the best part. I didn’t know how he did it, exactly, but within minutes, he’d somehow recruited a small army of tiny hands to help spread the paint over his tanned skin. There were squeals, and giggles, and parents taking pictures of their little monsters wreaking blue havoc on Adrien Cloutier.

And once he was sufficiently coated in a sloppy, uneven paint job (that had inevitably also stained his white T-shirt), he stood up, bumped a whole bunch of small blue fists in celebration, paid for all the kids to get their own faces painted, and asked the lady if there were any costume shops around.

She’d said yes, and our slow descent into madness had stopped being slow. He’d slipped his fingers through mine, and I’d giggled all the way down the street to the store she’d recommended.

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