Page 69 of Best Friends
My face warms. “I was just changing a lightbulb not climbing Mt. Everest.”
His scowl deepens. “Get down. I’ll change it.” At my obstinate expression he says in a softer tone, “Please, get down.”
I hesitate, but then obey. To be honest, the light socket is slightly out of my reach and Malcolm is a few inches taller than me. He helps me down and then he climbs up the ladder quickly and efficiently. Within minutes he has the bulb changed. As his feet reach the ground, he swings around to face me.
“Please don’t do stuff like that.” His voice is calm, but there’s a note of frustration. “I can’t watch you every second to be sure you don’t hurt yourself.”
“I don’t need you to watch me every second.” I bristle. “I’m not a child.”
A muscle works in his cheek as he studies me. I can see him trying to work out how best to approach me. That exceeding patience is sometimes worse than when he just loses his cool with me. I don’t like the feeling he thinks he has to tiptoe around me like I’m a crazy person.
“Did you finish painting the nursery?” I ask, hoping to change the subject. I try to sound cheerful, but it just comes out brittle.
His gaze flickers. “No. I wanted to see if maybe you wanted to help me with painting the edges around the doors and windows. You have a more delicate touch than me.” His voice is gruff.
Surprised he wants me to help with the painting, I brighten. We’d argued about me helping earlier today. He’d said he didn’t want me straining myself too much and I’d been annoyed that he was treating me like a glass figurine. It seems perhaps he’s seen the error of his ways?
“Of course I’ll help.”
He jerks his head toward the upstairs. “Then let’s do it before we lose the light.”
I follow him up the stairs, trying not to notice how nice his firm ass looks in his faded jeans. I’m still annoyed at how controlling he can be sometimes. I get that it’s in his alpha nature to think he’s in charge. But he’s not in charge of me and that’s something he continually needs to be reminded of lately.
Once in the nursery I see he’s made good progress. More than half the room is finished, although the areas around thewindows and door frames are still not done. He bends down and picks up a small edging brush.
“You can use this brush,” he says. “It’s the perfect size.”
He hands it to me and our fingers brush. I shiver at the warmth of his skin against mine. I may be annoyed with his bossiness, but he’s still the sexiest alpha I’ve ever known. His scent makes my pulse spike, and no matter how many times we fuck, I never get enough.
But he doesn’t need to know how much he excites me right now.
He pulls over a short step stool for me. “Be careful.”
I roll my eyes. “The most I’d do if I fell off that would be to stub my toe.”
He sighs. “Please just be careful, C.” He and goes to climb the bigger ladder.
Shaking my head, I pull off my shirt because it’s warm in the nursery. I balance a tray of the yellow paint on the top of the stool. Then I carefully climb up and begin painting the creamy yellow paint onto the walls. It’s not hard work, just meticulous. But it feels good to be helping him. The one thing I hate about being pregnant is how everyone treats me like I’m so fragile.
We work in silence for about an hour. At one point, I feel Malcolm’s gaze on me. When I look over he’s running his eyes over my bare torso. His eyes linger on my big stomach, and even from a distance I see the lust in his eyes. He loves my full belly. He thinks it’s sexy. Personally, I feel like a tug boat, but he’s turned on anytime he sees me naked.
I go back to my painting, trying to ignore the weight of his stare. I get down at one point to refill my paint tray.Unfortunately, when I lift the tray up onto the top of the step stool, it tips and pours all over my shoulders and torso. I gasp and stand there with my eyes wide as the yellow paint drips down my body.
“Shit, are you okay?” he’s beside me in a moment, taking the empty tray from me.
“Fuck.” I look down at my torso and jeans that are soaked with the paint.
He looks like he’s trying not to laugh.
I scowl. “It’s not funny, Malc.”
He smirks. “It’s a little funny.”
I say flatly, “In what way is this catastrophe funny?”
“Because you look like a very grumpy, very pregnant highlighter,” he says, his grin widening despite my glare.
I want to stay mad, but the mental image of myself as a highlighter makes my lips twitch. “I hate you.”
