Page 38 of The Match

“Who’s this for?” I frown at the color.

“You. I thought you’d want it.”

I grimace. “I prefer yellow, with a glitter layer please.”

Her eyebrows raise in a look of happy approval. “Glitter is intermediate. Let’s focus on the base layer for now and see how you do.”

It takes all of ten minutes for me to screw up my fingernails. I look like an actual toddler. No—I’m sure toddlers paint nails better than I have. It’s all over my cuticles and clumped up into sticky patches that will never dry in certain places. Evie has lost it laughing at me more than once, and I blame my terrible painting skills on her distracting smile. On the fact that I can’t look away from her for more than thirty seconds before my eyes trail back in her direction.

I’m eating up every second I get alone with Evie. I never want it to end.

“Here,” she says on a laugh, making me extend my hand across the island in her direction. And then she takes my hand in hers, dips a cotton ball in some polish remover solution, and starts brushing it over my nails. “This is embarrassing. I can’t let you leave here like this. I thought architects are supposed to be good with details.”

She leans over my hand, and her messy bun of blond hair wobbles a bit to the right. Pieces are falling all around her face and down the curve of her neck. I want to trace them with my fingertips.

“I’m better with a pencil.” I’m trying to focus on my hand and not the place where her oversized shirt has fallen off her bare shoulder. Her skin looks as soft as velvet, with a light golden-brown tint that makes my mouth water. I want to kiss that patch of skin. I want to taste it.

“Let’s hope you’re better at using your basic skills on other people than you are using them on yourself.” Evie’s voice pulls my gaze from her shoulder to her laughing eyes. She’s finished removing my polish and is now holding out her fingers for me to paint.

I force myself to breathe and pick up the polish she’s chosen for herself. Hot pink. “Look at you, already improving on your dirty jokes.”

“Let’s hope you’re as quick of a learner as I am,” she says while wiggling her fingers in front of me.

Focus, Jake.

I do a pretty decent job of it this time, managing to keep most of the polish on her nail rather than her skin. And when I’m done, there’s only a few smudges. She assesses them with a smile that I want to drink up. “Much better. I think you’re ready to move on to hair.”

I frown. “I’m not even going to pretend to not be terrified of that. Last time I tried to brush Sam’s hair it ended in literal crying. Like tears pouring down her cheeks. I don’t want to put you through that—because you seem to have twice the amount of hair as Sam.” My eyes instinctively creep up to the blond bun on top of her head.

She waves me off, though. “I have a hard head. You can’t hurt me. I’m the best test subject.” Careful not to smudge her wet nails, she plucks the hairbrush from the counter. “Let’s go to the couch.”

I sit down first and then freeze as Evie steps right in front of me between my legs. For one glorious second my brain imagines all sorts of things. Placing my hands on her hips and spinning her to face me. I’d lift her shirt and kiss her stomach. I’d—

She sits on the floor, and I quickly blink the desire out of my eyes. Because I’m sure my pupils are so blown out right now I’d look like one of those vampires I’ve been reading about.

“You’ll have to take my hair tie out for me.” She holds up her nails to remind me that they’re wet.

I fill my lungs before carefully taking the scrunchie between my fingers and unraveling it from her knot of hair. It tugs once and I hiss, afraid I’ve hurt her. She just laughs. “I told you; I have a hard head. You can’t have hair as long as mine and be sensitive.”

Of course I immediately imagine dipping my lips to her neck and seeing if she’s sensitive there or not.

I swallow my attraction and get back to work. Finally, her hair loosens and falls down over her shoulders and back. It’s long and beautiful—even in this wavy, tangly state, I’m gripped by it. But to be fair, it could be any length or color and I’d still think the same thing because it’s a part of her.

A hairbrush enters my line of sight. “Here. Use this.”

I take it from her and my nerves twist. “You really want me to brush your hair? I’m telling you—”

“Stop being so timid and brush my hair, Broaden.”

I chuckle and take her challenge. Starting with the brush at the top of her head, I sink it into her hair and start pulling it down. It’s ripping through so many tangles, it sounds like Pop Rocks. I stop midway down. “I’m really so—”

“I thought so. You’re doing it wrong.”

She reaches behind her, gathers all of her hair into a ponytail, then raises it to me. “Hold this,” she says, and I just stare at it. This feels . . . intimate. Should holding all of her hair in my hand feel seductive? Has it just been that long since I’ve had sex that I’m overthinking the most basic of touches?

Trying to act as natural and unaffected as possible, I take her hair in my left hand. She then covers my right hand, holding the brush with hers, and moves it to the end of her ponytail. “If Sam has a sensitive scalp, you’re going to want to keep her hair gathered up like this in one hand while you work the tangles out from bottom to top like this.” She guides my hand through the movement as she talks—and damn this is hot when it absolutely shouldn’t be. It’s not sexual in the least, but it feels like the most sensual thing that’s ever happened to me.

“Okay, I got it,” I tell her after a minute, gaining confidence and guiding her hand away so I can do it myself. And now that I’m getting the hang of it, working in small sections up her hair like she suggested, I’m able to just enjoy the experience. I soak in the sweet scent of her shampoo. I’ll be smelling it all night in my dreams.

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