her waist, then to the buttons on her jeans. I undid them one-handed—yes, ladies, I am that good!—and slipped my hand in, grazing the soft lace of her panties. They were wet. And I was hard.
“I need you,” I whispered hoarsely. Her jeans were tight, and it was hard to get any leverage.
Her mind seemed to catch up to what her body wanted, and Morticia grabbed my hand, yanking it away. She turned around to fix her clothes.
I wrapped my arms around her, pressing against her, wanting her to feel how hard I was through the fabric.
“You sure you don’t want to do a bit of historical reenactment of the Celts ushering in the winter solstice?” I growled, kissing her neck then nipping her ear. “I felt how wet you are. You can’t lie and say you don’t want me.”
She turned around in my arms but didn’t throw me off. “I’m here to work,” she said.
I kissed her. “That’s fine. I can work it.”
“No,” she said, rapping me on the nose. “You hired me to do your marketing, not get you off.”
“You could do both.”
Morticia glared at me.
“Er…Crap, that was the wrong thing to say.”
“Yes, it was,” she said.
I stepped back. “Usually I’m smoother than this,” I explained as I followed Morticia into the kitchen.
She set an even bigger black bag than last time on the counter and started pulling out cameras and props.
“Are those cupcakes?” I asked her.
“These are for the photo shoot.” She pulled out several more Tupperware containers and put them in the fridge. “It’s a sexy photo shoot, but I’m making you chicken parmesan if you cooperate and keep your hands to yourself.”
33
Morticia
I had had to sit through the judges giving a list of all the ways our dishes were wrong and Keeley gloating beside me because she had sabotaged my score. I was furious and in need of some serious self-care after the bake-off ended. I was all set to hang out with The Chilling Adventures of Sabrina and work on my art project. The next episode of Sabrina in the queue was the Christmas special.
“I wouldn’t mind Christmas so much if there were more witches,” I told Salem.
All the other girls had gone out for a night on the town, and the apartment was blessedly quiet. I was making Italian food, lighting candles, and drinking wine. I hadn’t heard back from the Getty yet. Maybe they weren’t going to take me. All this bake-off work would be for nothing if I didn’t even need the money to pay for the internship.
The phone rang, breaking the silence.
“This is the Getty museum!” a cheerful older woman said. “I called to let you know that you made it to the next round. We’ve sent your interview information to the email address you provided. Don’t forget about the scholarship deadline.”
“Absolutely,” I said after thanking her profusely.
“Yes! I’m going to California!” When I scanned the email, I knew I had it in the bag. Dorothy was going to be my interviewer.
I flopped back on the couch, feeling relaxed and happy…until I realized I was not all that far along on my art project. I ran into my bedroom and, after looking around to make doubly sure no one else was there, I pulled it out from under the bed.
The last thing I needed was for Keeley to get her hands on the project. I had been working on it in the middle of the night out in the hallway. Fortunately, it was mainly collage and found objects. The piece itself was a triptych that could fold up like an advent calendar so that it could be propped up. I had about a third of it done. I was calling the first third “The Awakening,” and it contained the shots I had been taking of Jonathan interwoven with baked goods and images of fifties housewives bearing various holiday Jell-O molds.
The biggest panel was the middle one. I couldn’t just have a repeat of what had been in the first third. I needed more content; more importantly, I needed spicier, steamier content.
My phone beeped with messages from Jonathan. He was at home. My heart raced.
What if he found out about the art piece? With the types of pictures I needed, at some point, he was going to realize that I wasn’t using them for marketing purposes. Giving up was not the answer. I needed to win this scholarship. I couldn’t spend another year suffering for my art. The Getty internship was