Page 100 of Highest Bidder

He smiles sweetly. “Okay. Coffee, then clothes. Sorry about coming out here in just a towel. But I didn’t think you’d want me running around in your robe.”

I can’t help but giggle at the thought. “The one with the embroidered flowers? No, please. Help yourself.”

He downs his coffee and smirks. “Maybe next time. Be right back.” As he makes his way to the bathroom, the towel drops, and he mutters, “Shit,” before snatching it up fast to cover himself.

Not that I minded the view of his muscular ass. Why is he being so shy still? I mean, I get that he’s trying to give me space and be polite, but I’ve seen him naked before. It’s literally nothing I haven’t seen before.

Crap. I’m a project to him. I cannot let that be the case. When he comes back out, I have to make a move.

He returns dressed. “Thanks. I feel like a person again. And I was thinking about something we could do today.”

Me too. “What’s that?”

He reaches behind himself and pulls out a bottle of red nail polish from his back pocket. “What do you think?”

“You need your pedicure touched up?”

He grins. “No. I was thinking I could paint your nails.”

Is this a fetish or something? “What a random thing to do.”

“When I was a kid, I liked to paint. For a while there, Mom and Dad went through a rough patch, so I started painting her nails to cheer her up. I used to be pretty good at it, if you want to give it a shot.”

Oh my god. I’m not just a project. I’m a fixer upper. “You think my nails need?—"

“No, no. Just thought you could use some cheering up.”

He’s right. If we’re just friends now, I’m going to need that. “Um, okay. Yeah. Sure.”

“Great,” he says, grinning. “I’ll get it all set up.” Then he vanishes back into the bathroom. When he comes out with his arms full of stuff, it’s clear we’re not just doing nails. He’s giving me a DIY spa day. First it’s the nails, followed by an eye mask, which triggers my trauma from the blindfold, so we move on to a shoulder massage while we wait for my nails to dry. He even agrees to watch a teen slasher for me.

It’s amazing, but I feel bad. “You know you don’t have to do all this, right?”

“Yes, well, my father is the reason you were kidnapped, so let me work out some guilt on the knots in your shoulders.”

“You don’t have to feel guilty about any of it—oh. That spot.”

“On it.”

I can’t take advantage like this, so I turn around. “Anderson, stop.”

“Why? Are you okay? Did I?—"

“You’re great. But I’d rather just hang out with you and eat too much Chinese food and watch some teenagers run from the guy with the machete. Is that okay?”

“Whatever you want, June.”

We settle on the couch with our takeout boxes and chopsticks and get into the movie, while I try to figure out how to make a move on him. Just as the protagonists run for the SUV and I’m about to scream, “He slashed the tires, just run!” Anderson says, “There is something I need to ask you.”

“What’s that?”

“I feel terrible about the money I owe you, and well, everything else, and?—"

“Please stop assigning terrible feelings to things related to me. That’s not exactly what a girl wants to hear.”

He chuckles. “Point taken. You know I didn’t know my father would have our CFO freeze my account, right?”

“Yeah. What about it?”

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