Page 39 of Do You Take This Man

LEANING AGAINST MYcar, I reread my email to Gretchen, making sure no wayward typos made it into my answer to her question regarding the latest challenge with the Mayfield case.

I hit send, and a notification flashed across the screen a moment later.

Lear:Stop working.

RJ:I never stop working.

RJ:How did you know I was working?

“You get this crease between your eyebrows when you’re focused on the job.” Lear strode toward me, hands in the pockets of his jeans, looking handsome in a blue T-shirt that stretched over his chest, the sleeves accentuating his toned biceps.

“I do not,” I said, tucking my phone into my pocket. Seeing him out in the world, in the middle of the day, was unsettling except for the way his forearms flexed, reminding me of how he’d relaxed under my touch the weekend before when I smeared aloe on his skin.

He laughed and placed the tip of his finger between my brows. “Right here.”

“Whatever.” I nudged his arm away, but the warmth of his skin briefly made my palm tingle. “Why are you watching me, anyway?”

“I wasn’t watching you. I saw you when I walked out of the pharmacy.” He leaned one arm against my car. “You think I’d spend my only day off following you around?”

As soon as my eyebrow went up, he laughed again, the slight breeze blowing his hair across his forehead. “I’m just running errands. How about you? Besides working in the parking lot.”

“I’m on my way to get a manicure and pedicure, if you must know.”

“That’s good—your feet were looking a little rough last time I saw them.” He jumped out of the way before my hand could make contact with his abs, his smile easy.

I fought my grin and swatted his stomach. “Like you’ve got room to talk.”

“Maybe I should go with you.”

“You get pedicures?”

He crossed his arms across his chest. “Are you calling me unevolved?”

I matched his posture, giving him what Britta called my lawyer eyebrow.

“Fine. I don’t normally drop money on it, but I’ll get one if it will make your sexual experience better.”

I rolled my eyes and strode toward the nail salon. “I guess if you won’t stop talking during sex, smooth feet are a consolation prize.”

The nail salon wasn’t crowded, and I inhaled the clean, slightly perfumed scent as I greeted the staff member at the desk. “Hi, Tom. I have an appointment.”

The man at the front smiled and made a note on his computer before looking over my shoulder. “And you?”

“Any chance you have an opening?”

“Pick a color,” he said, pointing to the wall of nail polish behind us and returning to his screen.

“Decisions, decisions...” Lear rubbed his chin and I nudged him with my hip.

“You’re not going to get a color.”

He shrugged. “I can’t on my fingers. Penny has a strict no-nail-color rule, lest it clash with some couple’s color scheme.”

“Oh.” I reached for a bottle and my hand collided with Lear’s, him grabbing the bottle of That’s My Jam, my unfortunately named favorite. “I thought you said you didn’t want color.”

“On my fingers,” he said, holding the bottle out of reach. “This might look good on my toes.”

“That’s my shade.”

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