Page 30 of Bad Boys Don’t Date Clumsy Girls

I am now, thank you very much. It doesn’t help that the way he has his arms crossed pulls his shirt tight across his chest, showing off muscles. Where did he get those, anyway? “No, you were fully clothed in my mind.”

“Ah-ha!” He stands up and claps in victory.

“No, that’s not what I meant. You weren’t even in my mind. Or on my mind, whatever.” His knowing look makes me turn redder. Without thinking, I sweep the mop upward and splat it against his chest. “Calm down already. I wasn’t fantasizing about you.”

He jumps back as water soaks his shirt. He looks at me incredulously. “Oh no, you didn’t.”

My jaw slackens too. I can’t believe I did that.

Faster than Chip can run, Dylan lunges to the bucket and sweeps his hand through the water, causing a tidal wave to arc down my legs. I leap back with a squeal. The cold water leaves me speechless. I plunge the mop back into the bucket and arc it through the air toward Dylan, but he’s ready for me and has the advantage of a longer reach. He plucks the mop from my grip and holds it in the air over my head. A torrent of water cascades over my head. I jump, trying to snatch the mop back, but Dylan uses his other arm to hold me in place. I push against his grip, but his arm is a steel band around my waist. Instead, I reach up on tiptoes, hoping to get the mop handle, but he’s taller and his arms are much longer than mine. The only consolation is that now the mop drips onto both of our heads. My gaze follows the series of drips to the crown of his head, and I grin as they roll down his face.

That’s when I realize that his face is only inches from mine and that our bodies are pressed together. I freeze, aware of how my soft body molds against his lean one. I gulp.

He seems to realize it at the same time, because he lets go of me and steps backward like I’ve burned him. He backs out of the kennel. Popeye watches us with his ears forward and his head cocked, looking like he wants to play too.

Seeing how much Dylan resembles a drowned rat tells me I must look like I just washed ashore during a tidal wave.

His heated gaze scans me from head to toe as he pulls his sodden shirt away from his skin. I silently wish he’d let it cling to his muscled chest longer.

With his smirk firmly in place, he says, “Good thing we have a change of clothes.”

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