Page 33 of Plays Well With Others

Once she locks the door behind us, she guides me over to the main counter then points. “Stand here,” she says.

Simple directions. Good. That’s about all the beast in me can handle right now.

“And shoot it on your phone. Since you’ll be editing it for Date Night. Or giving it to someone to edit. Or however you do it,” she says, easy breezy. She’s clearly into the whole help-a-friend aspect of tonight. I should follow her lead.

“Right,” I say as I grab my phone from my back pocket and hit the camera icon.

But when I look up, a rumble nearly escapes my lips—a bestial rumble. She’s letting down her hair and shaking out her locks. Have I walked into a shampoo commercial?

If so, I have a new dream. To live inside a shampoo commercial.

“You’re wearing your hair down?” I ask, my voice a rough scrape.

“No,” she says with a bright smile. “I’m wearing it up.”

Up, down, it’s all good. I’ll just watch her do things to her hair all night long. That sounds like a great date to me.

“Just hit record,” she adds. “I’ll show you.”

I comply, positioning the phone to shoot. “Ready. Go.”

She flashes a smile at the camera. “Hey, there. So my date is picking me up from work, and you know what that means, ladies? It means you need to go from business to night like that,” she says, snapping her fingers. “So, the first thing I do to get ready is this—I sweep my hair into a simple updo.”

She grabs the hair clip, then twists her hair back up on her head, exposing her neck.

My throat goes dry.

“Then, I throw on some fun date jewelry,” she says, grabbing a necklace from the counter, and quickly clipping it on. “And for the final tweak? I adjust my top from day to night,” she says, then shimmies the sleeves off her shoulders, wriggling them down, showing off more gorgeous flesh.

More kissable skin.

More bare inches of her body.

Monroe was right about one thing—I am definitely in the dating wild tonight.

“There you go,” she says, then takes a pause, before adding, “You can stop shooting, Carter.”

Oh, right. “Of course,” I say, then end the video and put my phone away.

When I look back, I see her wincing as she tugs at the delicate chain. “Ouch. Can you help?” she asks. Then she spins around, showing me the nape of her neck. “I think my necklace is caught in my hair. Can you undo it and redo it?”

I step closer, catching a dangerous hint of her perfume. It smells like orange blossoms and the kind of desire that clobbers you from out of nowhere. It’s dangerous and seductive all at once. I undo the clasp, gently freeing the wisps of hair from it.

“Thank you,” she says, seeming relieved.

“No problem,” I mumble.

But I don’t redo the clasp right away.

The thing is—I have good hands. Great hands. It’s my job to use them to pull footballs from thin air. To have complete control.

My hands are even insured.

Right now, though, they don’t feel steady at all. I’m dying to run a finger down the back of her neck, then along her shoulder blades, to learn how she responds to a gentle touch.

And to a not so gentle one too.

To all sorts of touches from my curious hands.

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