Page 31 of Grumpy Puck

“That wasn’t a joke.But this is: what color socks am I wearing?”

He darts a glance at my feet.“It’s difficult to see.”

“Wrong,” I say.“I’m not wearing any.I havebearfeet.”Yes, Seraphina has rubbed off on me.

He doesn’t so much as chuckle—probably because the forbidden topic of bears has been broached.“I think it’s smart that you’re preparing.Ted just made shit up as he went along, and it was never as professional-looking as that dance.”

“Wait.Was that a compliment?”I glance at Wolfgang.“Is the universe about to implode?”

Wolfgang makes a chattering sound by grinding his incisors.

Meine Liebe, at the moment, galaxies are rushing away from each other, which implies that the universe shouldn’t implode for a while, if ever.I theorize that the galaxies are chasing supermassive black holes made of the most delectable cheese.

“Are you ready for me to escort you out?”Michael asks gruffly.

“Fine.Let’s go,” I say with an eyeroll and swing by my changing room before I stride out, feeling his eyes on my back.

With every step, my heartbeat skyrockets in anticipation of what might happen in the parking lot.

After all, we kissed for the cameras yesterday, so we should do so again today, right?

For consistency’s sake, of course.It has nothing to do with that beard.

Once again, the media people are still there when we exit, and they scream questions at us that are cut short by Michael’s suggestion that everyone go to the fucking dick.

As soon as the journalists have been scared into giving us a path through, Michael takes my elbow and leads me to the parking lot—which makes me feel like I’m floating.

As we approach my Beetle, he releases my elbow.

“See you tomorrow,” he murmurs.

I blink at him.“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

He arches one of his sexily thick eyebrows.“What am I forgetting?”

I gesture at the journalists.“A kiss?”

He looks like he’s just bypassed all bee defenses and is about to savor some premium honey.“You don’t think they took enough kissy pictures yesterday?”

I dampen my dry lips.“It’s not about the pictures this time.It’s about them seeing us being intimate, or not.”Yeah.That’s why we should do it.“We don’t want someone to write a story about how we’ve already broken up.”

He leans in, his lips tantalizingly close.“Are you sure it’s for them?Maybe youwantme to kiss you.”

I all but turn into a growly bear myself.“Not if you were the last man on Earth.”

He shrugs.“I guess we can fake a kiss for them.”He turns his back to the journalists and envelops me in a hug, but his lips are a whole inch away from mine—which might as well be a mile.“This way they’ll think we’re kissing,” he whispers.“But we’re not.”

My heart is pounding way too fast, and I feel oddly shivery despite the Florida heat.“But what if someone has a long-focus lens and is hiding where they have just the right angle?”I whisper, then mentally kick myself.

He’s going to tease me again.I just know it.

“If someone takes a picture of this, they’ll have a picture of us embracing,” he murmurs.“In what world does that lead them to conclude that we’ve broken up?”

How dare he use common sense and logic?I push him away.“I’m going home.”

He blows me a mocking air kiss.“Pleasant dreams,ptichka.”

I wake up in the middle of the night, wet.No, that’s an understatement.I need a new, better word for how desperately I need sexual release.

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