Page 68 of Against The Rules

“Relaaaaaaax,” I say, and pull out the crappy office chair I usually avoid working in because it makes my hip ache. “Sit down. Take a load off. Here at the Durand Spa, we believe in satisfying our customers.”

“Oh? What kind of satisfying?”

“The kind that goes along with a vigorous skincare routine.” I smile evilly at him.

He swallows again, sitting down carefully in my ancient office chair, which squeaks in dismay under him. If I get a little evil pleasure at the way he white-knuckles the arms of the chair, does that make me bad?

I don’t really care.

Laughing, I grab my electric brush from my tiny bathroom and glop some cleanser on it. The light tells me it’s fully charged, and I paste a horrific smile on my face as I come out of the bathroom, wielding it in front of a visibly nervous professional athlete.

I’m laughing so hard I can hardly catch my breath. “Just stay still and it won’t hurt a bit.”

His eyes dip from mine to the brush in my hand and then back up again. “What’s that?”

“Just relax,” I tell him, grinning.

“You know that telling someone to relax doesn’t actually work, right?”

“Shhhhh, everything is going to be fine.”

His eyes get wider and wider as I inch the brush closer and closer to his face.

“Hang on.”

“What?” he screeches. “What is it?”

“I want my margarita.”

“Thank god, I was half-expecting you to tell me I put the lotion on my skin or I get the hose again.”

Frowning, I turn up the speed on my Clarisonic and thrust it onto his cheek. He squeezes his eyes shut.

“Ahhhh!” he screams. “Wait. That’s… this is nice.”

“Yes. Yes it is. You really thought this little thing was going to hurt you?”

I scrub it along his face and he sighs, visibly relaxing.

“Imagine the biggest wide receiver in the league being afraid to have his face washed. Don’t you get hit by three-hundred-pound men for a living?”

“And none are as terrifying as you.”

A laugh bubbles out of me. “I’m a little drunk.”

“You know I didn’t put any tequila in the latest batch of margaritas, right?”

I suck in a breath. “Blasphemy.”

“If you’re still drunk from the last margarita you had, then you should be thanking me.”

I close one eye, then the other. “Fair enough.”

A flick of my fingers turns the electric face scrubber off, and I pad back to the bathroom and pluck a clean towel from a drawer, getting it damp to wipe his face down.

“Aren’t you going to do that to yourself?”

“Nah, it’s more fun to do it to you.”

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