Page 21 of Santa Has a Six-Pack
My voice got all low and growly, like we’re alone in my bedroom instead of standing in the middle of a department store surrounded by over a hundred holiday shoppers.
She slides her shoes off. Seeing her slender feet and perfectly manicured toes sends a zing of heat through me.
There’s all this talk about guys being “boob men” or “ass men.” Is it possible I’m a foot man? Nah. That’s too weird to be a thing. Honestly, I think I’m just a Penny man. Everything about this woman lights me up.
She finally takes my offered hand and lets me assist her onto the equipment.
“I put my feet here?” she asks softly, settling her ankles into position.
She tosses her loose curls over her shoulder when she addresses me. Being this close to her, I can smell hints of her shampoo and the scent of her skin. Aloe and apples and… cinnamon, maybe?
I don’t mean to—at least I don’t think I do—but I brush against her as I adjust the settings to accommodate her long legs. Another rush of heat goes through me. She jolts back slightly, like she felt it too.
“That’s right,” I say, trying to be all business with her and failing miserably. “You can, uh, you can settle your hips here on this cushion.” I pat the space in front of her.
She rests her pelvis right where I tell her to, then looks at me for the next instruction.
Having her full attention on me without all her usual sarcasm and sass is unnerving. And really fucking exciting. In some corner of my consciousness, I know Keira is filming us and shoppers are watching and whispering, but that all fades into the distance as I focus on Penny.
“You want to bend at your hips so your head points toward the ground,” I say.
“Like this?” She tips forward until her ass is in the air and her long, silky brown hair is dusting the floor.
I swallow. “Yeah, um, that’s exactly right.”
“Now what?” she asks.
I crouch down to talk to her. “Cross your arms over your heart like this.” I demonstrate what I need her to do, and again, she follows the instructions perfectly. “You’re a natural with this sort of thing.”
“Well, I used to be a dancer,” she says. “Choreography comes easily to me, I guess.”
She’s actually allowing me to learn something about her.
“What kind of dancer?”
“All kinds, really,” she says. “Tap, jazz, ballet, lyrical…”
“You know, the first time I saw you I actually thought, ‘wow, she has this ballerina-like grace about her.’”
“No, you didn’t.” She laughs.
“I really did! Do you have a favorite style of dance?”
She crooks her finger, beckoning me closer.
I eagerly obey. We’re so close now I could kiss her.
“I’m currently upside down and ass-up in the air while a crowd of people watches. Maybe we can save the get-to-know-you stuff for later and move this demonstration along?”
“Yes. Absolutely. Let’s move things along,” I say.
She gave me the tiniest morsel of information about herself, and I was ready to pull up a chair beside her and ask her all her likes and dislikes.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I stand and address our audience at full volume. “So, friends, the lovely Miss Whitaker is in position now and ready to demonstrate a series of explosive hip extensions.”
“Explosive?” Penny says in alarm. “That sounds dangerous.”
