he showered, before he came into work with me.
Oh boy… I haven’t brushed since this morning, and I had tacos for lunch.
I go to step away, but he pulls me back to where I was, his gaze focused on my helmet.
“Did your bony face dent it?” I tease, but it comes out wobbly. I’m not used to standing so close to him. I’m not used to smelling him… enjoying that smell. I’m not used to his hand in mine, making my palm sweaty in a fantastic and confusing way and my heart thud so loud I can barely hear my own internal voice telling me how dorky a person I am.
He shakes his head, the corner of his mouth pulling upward. “Those stealthy gals.”
He lets my hand go, and a wave of cold hits my palm. I rub it on my coveralls as he gently unbuckles my helmet and pulls it from my head.
A bright pink paint stain covers the crown of the helmet. Holy crow… when in the world did those sweater moms get me?
“I didn’t even feel that.” I tap a finger to the paint, pulling it away pink. Yep, it’s fresh.
“Do I got pink on my chin?” Pete asks. I boldly grab his face and inspect, doing a thorough job just for the fun of it. A blush appears up and down his neck, flooding his cheeks, and I almost point out that he’s turning pink. But I don’t.
“All clear.”
He takes a deep breath, and before I can get a grasp on myself since I’m flooded with that stupid awesome mint scent, he takes a step back, hoisting up his weapon.
He plucks his goggles from the ground and awkwardly wiggles them on. They hang crooked on his nose, and he tries to stand straight and intimidating.
“I shall avenge you.”
I hold back a laugh as he takes off. A pink splat covers his butt. I guess he’s out too, but I think I’ll let the ol’ gals get a couple more shots in before I let him know.
Pete
“Explain something to me,” I say to Candace, clicking the Zombie Theater door shut for a group of preteens. The place is decked out in Christmas and horror décor; a Zombie Santa takes up half the entryway, and I scoot around his bloody bag of brains to lean against the graveside podium Candace stands behind.
“I’ll try,” she teases, swiveling on the stool she’s perched on. Pink and white paint dot her reddish-brown hair; the white shines under the blacklights in the room.
“So, you don’t like the color white.”
“I already explained that.”
“I know.” I smirk and prop myself up next to her. Our mics have been turned off while the theater’s going, but I still push it up so it’s not sitting just centimeters from my lips.
She follows suit. “Then what do I need to explain?” Her voice is upbeat, blissful almost. She has a smile behind her eyes, and it’s been there since we came out of the paintball zone.
“You also don’t like messes.”
“Uh huh…”
I knock my shoulder into hers. “Seems a bit contradictory, don’t you think?”
She bumps back into me. “No.”
“Explain.”
Her dark brown eyes meet mine, and the playfulness there sends a fresh zap through my gut that hasn’t really left since this morning. I suddenly feel the need to eye her hand resting on the podium, studying her manicured nails that have bits of white paint flecked on them. The corner of my mouth twitches. I like the tiny bit of mess she allowed herself today.
“You probably noticed that my fear of getting messy is at a level blue while the absence of color is at a measly orange.”
“Still don’t get why you’re afraid of both.” I pull my hand away from hers, shaking the temptation to tap the flecks of paint on her hands away. “If you saw something white, wouldn’t you make a mess of it?”
“Not a mess. A purposeful display of life, maybe. Like how a blank canvas needs a flawless painting.”
“Flawless, huh?”
“Well…” She pulls at the inside of her lip. She does that a lot. Never realized how adorable I find it. “I guess I’ll get used to the idea of imperfection.”
“Probably a good idea.” My fingertips move of their own accord, tapping the white paint flecks on her knuckles. “Imperfections are everywhere.”
A small gasp slips through her lips, and she starts rubbing at the paint with a fury. I chuckle at her sudden panic.
“Stop.” I pull her hands in mine. It’s purely to stop