Hot Pickle - J.J. Knight Page 0,20

across Max’s naked back.

The rest of me is absolutely dying.

I may be stoic on the outside, but inside I’m on fire.

I want to take pictures, make a life-size print, staple it to my ceiling over my bed so I can see him first thing each morning.

God, I’ve got it bad, bad, bad.

I release the nozzle to kill the spray. “Turn,” I tell Max. He has to face me now.

I take care to only look at what I’m spraying, but of course, I have to make my way down.

Of course, he’s back in control and covered up by the stretchy bit of nylon.

I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed. I mean, if he can’t keep it in his pants, like, literally, then he probably shouldn’t be my client. It’s a liability, not that I’d put him on the rack for sexual harassment or anything. But because a random hard-on isn’t something he should be worrying about right before going on stage.

So, it’s good he got it controlled.

We’re good.

I finish out the coat.

“I’m going to let you dry in privacy while I eat my sandwich,” I tell him, even though I’d rather stare at him the whole time.

I tuck the wand away and hurry ahead to move the stool.

Above the tarp, the oversized arms of the fan, a custom install I did myself, whir lazily, wafting a nice, even breeze on my face.

I needed that.

When I turn, Max still waits in the tent. I give him a quick nod and head off to the kitchen.

By the time I return to my living room, Max is back behind the screen. I busy myself with picking up the tarp and towels, setting aside the things that will need to be washed and putting away the bottles of moisturizer and oil.

I can’t possibly tan him for several more days, and I wrack my brain for a way to see him again before then.

I should probably be a modern woman and ask him out. But something about the awkwardness of our encounters, plus our client relationship, make me hesitate.

There’s also the not-so-small matter of my brother.

Max steps out from behind the screen. “What should I do with the…”

“Keep it for next time,” I say quickly.

He nods and sticks the modesty pouch in a pocket.

This draws my gaze to the shiny red shorts.

All is well down there.

I’m almost disappointed.

“I should see you tomorrow,” I blurt before my sense of caution can stop me.

One of those devastating brows arches. “Really?”

Hell. I have to think fast. My words rush out like lemmings falling off a cliff. “I want to see how this color looks on you. I can adjust the shade as we get closer. I had to guess.”

He nods slowly. “I could come by tomorrow night. Unless you want to drop by the deli and see what it looks like in natural light.”

I want to say both but check myself. We don’t need his employees to talk. And if Franklin ever goes there, and someone says something, we’re doomed.

“It won’t get dark until after eight. Maybe meet at a park?”

He nods. “It’s a date. I mean, a plan. I’ll bring sandwiches. I don’t want you to get sick of veggie, though. Is there something else you would like to try?”

“Surprise me,” I say.

“Are you vegetarian?”

“Yes. No. I mean, I generally eat vegetarian, but I’m not opposed to meat.” Even the word meat makes my cheeks heat up.

Guys, I’m a mess.

Another quick nod. “I’m sure I can whip up something especially for you. So, what do I owe you?”

I try to wave him off, but his face darkens. “I’m not going to take advantage of you.”

“You’re not. To be honest, you probably shouldn’t have had your first tan for a few more days. But this is a very important meet. You are going to be new and I want to make sure you’re perfect.”

And I desperately wanted to see you again, I add silently.

“I’m sure it was good for you to straighten out my mess from Saturday anyway,” he says.

“That, too.”

“But I will be paying for the tans.” His voice is firm.

“Absolutely. And I’m stupidly expensive. So, you better sell a lot of sandwiches tomorrow.”

He grins at that. “Well worth it. I’ll see you tomorrow, then. The park at the corner two blocks past the deli?”

“Sounds perfect. Don’t worry if you run late.”

I walk him to the door. It could be my imagination, but I think we’re both hesitating.

He’s so close that if I had a stepladder, I