Page 22 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
Olivia: You’re helping me with my office, not in my house.
Lucian: I thought I was helping you with both. I got the time and you crave it.
Olivia: Crave it? Excuse me?
Lucian: Don’t play innocent now. You want it. You need it. Lucky for you, I’ve got the skills to deliver exactly what you’re looking for.
Olivia: You’re talking about painting, right?
Lucian: If that helps you sleep at night.
Olivia: I can’t stand you, Lucian Crawford.
Lucian: You hate how much you like it. There’s a difference.
Olivia: No, I’m actually beginning to hate you.
Lucian: Uh-huh. That’s why you haven’t told me to stop.
Olivia: . . . sometimes I think you have a selective brain and only pay attention to what’s convenient.
Lucian: Not sure what you’re talking about . . . so, are we doing this tonight at your place or tomorrow morning at your office? Either way, I promise satisfaction.
Olivia: Oh my God.
Lucian: Full coverage. Deep strokes. Guaranteed to hit every corner.
Olivia: BLOCKED.
Lucian: You won’t. You can’t. You need me.
Olivia: I need help, not whatever this is.
Lucian: Help is what I’m offering, sweetheart. With my hands. With my stamina. With my technique. You’ll be sore when we’re done but in the best way.
Olivia: . . . are we still talking about painting?
Lucian: You tell me. :smirking face: emoji
Olivia: I AM GOING TO SCREAM.
Lucian: Loud and breathy? Because I could make that happen too.
Olivia: THAT’S IT. BLOCKED. REPORTED. CANCELLED.
Lucian: I’ll see you tomorrow morning, Liv. Try not to get too worked up before I get there. Wouldn’t want you all flushed and desperate before we even start. :kissy face: emoji
Chapter Eight
Lucian
The First “Date” That Isn’t
I should be somewhere else right now.
Anywhere else, really.
Like at the gym. Or—God forbid—a golf course. Okay, not there. I hate golf. It’s offensively boring, and don’t even get me started on the environmental impact of those pristine, water-guzzling fairways. The point is, I could be literally anywhere that doesn’t involve standing on Olivia’s porch, holding a six-pack of beer and a bag full of groceries, as if I’ve been invited.
