He’s serious. And for a scant, and rare, moment I catch a glimpse of the heart hiding under his laid-back, cocky exterior. Like the day I told him North dumped me, I sense that there’s more to Fox than overblown charm and lewd comments.
“Now what?” he asks, his voice tempting and suggestive.
I point at various booths dotting the grounds. “Funnel cake? Face paint? Temporary tattoo?”
He crunches on a piece of ice from his glass. I wish he’d take those sunglasses off so I could see his eyes again.
“Face paint,” he decides.
It’s either face painting or I admit that I’d like another of those deep, wet, delicious kisses he’s so good at surprising me with. Is it hot out here or is it me?
He throws money on the table without waiting for a bill, but fifty bucks will more than cover our tacos, and then he takes my hand and leads me from the patio area.
I relax, confident that the bout of crazed lust that hammered me earlier has receded. He tugs me in the direction of a photo booth with a line stretching around one of the sculptures that permanently sits outside. A tall, red, curvy...whatever it is. Sort of looks like a deflated ampersand.
“Let’s do this first.”
“That line is probably forty minutes long,” I whisper, taking in the many, many people patiently waiting their turn.
“Hey, ’scuse me, buddy,” Barrett says to a younger guy standing hand in hand with his girlfriend at the front of the line. “If I give you twenty bucks, would you let my girl and me cut in front of you? We’re pressed for time.”
The guy recognizes Barrett and his face splits into an awed smile. “Uh. Yeah. Yes. Sure. Go ahead.”
“Perfect.” He fishes a twenty from his pocket. The kid stares at him in awe. “Can you sign it? Or... Can you sign my shirt?”
“I’d love to, kid, but I don’t have a—”
“Here you go.” I thrust a black Sharpie into Barrett’s hand. He levels me with a narrow-eyed glare.
“You happened to have this in your bag?”
“Yep.”
He makes quick work of signing the kid’s T-shirt, and the twenty. When an older couple steps from the photo booth, Barrett drags me in. He taps the touchscreen as we get cozy on a bench that’s barely big enough for two.
“Tight quarters.” I wiggle my hips into place. “At least it’s air-conditioned in here.”
“I bought three sessions.” He faces me, sunglasses on his head again. We’re so close the freckles dotting the bridge of his nose are visible. “Make ’em good, Kitty Cat. Mia might want these for the column.”
A flash of light blinds me and in a blink and Barrett’s mouth is on mine. Just as I’m sinking into the kiss, the flashes barely registering, he pulls his lips from mine and tucks me close. “Smile if you can.”
“Damn, I missed it.” I smile for the next one, though, and then the one after that. We quickly change expressions for each photo: the typical eyes-crossed, stick-out-your-tongue poses as well as a surprise one from me when he tucks his finger into the top of my sundress and peeks down it. By then I was caught up in the silliness and tossed my head back to laugh.
He pulls the three strips of photos from the developer, thankfully located inside the booth. We step out and into a flurry of people with stars in their eyes, all waiting for a piece of Barrett Fox. I offer him my Sharpie and slide out of the way.
Fox sends me an apologetic smile, hands me our photo booth strips, and starts signing for his myriad fans.
Chapter 16
Catarina
Our driver turns into my apartment building’s parking lot and my heart ka-thumps in my chest.
Barrett rattled off my address and now here we are, about to say goodbye for the evening before he returns to his own apartment.
“Mind if I take this shit off before I leave?” He gestures to his face, painted to resemble a fox. Thick white paint covers his eyebrows and slopes down his nose, ending in a black circle. The artist was very good, choosing colors that complement Barrett’s golden brown facial hair.
“You can’t scrub your face at home by yourself?” I ask, giving him a hard time.
“I can, but I bet you have makeup remover that would cut this job in half.” He arches a foxy eyebrow. “Plus, I can help you take off yours.”
He taps my nose—which is painted bright pink. Since I didn’t have whiskers of my own, my face painter drew them on. I’m a kitty cat. Of course.
“What’s it going to be? You taking him up or am I taking him home?” Our driver, a sixty-three-year-old retiree—he told us—asks with a kind smile. “He seems safe enough.”
“Well, you don’t know him.” I smile at Barrett. “Come on up.”
“Am I waiting for him to come back down?” the driver asks.
My eyes clash with Barrett’s heated ones. It’s crystal clear what this date is leading to. If tonight doesn’t end with us in bed, we both know it’ll end with us in a knot on my sofa.
“No need to wait,” I tell the driver.
The elevator ride is a quiet one. We press our backs to the wall. Look at our shoes. We do not reenact any of the elevator make-out scenes from any number of books I’ve read or movies I’ve watched.
Inside my apartment, I flip on some lights and then toss my purse and keys on the kitchen table. “Master bathroom is through here.” I lead, Barrett follows. When I flip the light on in the master, he stalks toward me in a way that’s as animal as his face paint.
“Will you do it?” he asks.
“Sure. Sit.” I point to the closed toilet lid, and he obediently lowers himself onto it. I shove a brush, a bottle of lotion, and my curling iron into the vanity drawer. Luckily the rest of the bathroom is clean. I grab a pack of makeup remover towelettes and tug one from the packet. Holding his chin, I swipe one over his right eyebrow. “Photo evidence of this will definitely make the column. Mia loves to embarrass me.”
Barrett forked over his cellphone and asked our artists to snap photos of us. Later on he took a few himself, including one of me eating an ice-cream cone.
“I’m so full, I’m no longer buzzed. What a waste of a designated driver.” I’m talking to fill the tense air.
Barrett’s eyes are closed, his reddish-brown lashes shadowing his cheeks, his skin pink from my scrubbing. He looks like a boy, save for the prominent stubble and masculine angle of his jaw. He’s almost painfully gorgeous.
“All done.” My voice is tight with lust, the innocuous act of removing face paint somehow nearly as sensual as removing clothing. When his eyes open, I fall into them like pools. I toss the used towelettes into the wastebasket.
“Anything else?” I clear my throat, suddenly and strangely nervous.
“Your turn.” We trade places and he carefully swipes the paint from my cheeks, forehead, and chin, his eyebrows lowered in concentration. I enjoy the pampering, and the attention.
When he’s through, I slowly open my eyes, chin elevated. “Thanks, Fox.”
“You’re welcome, Kitty Cat.” He looks at my mouth with a longing I feel but doesn’t kiss me. I can tell he’s about to leave. I don’t want him to, but it’s the best idea for both of us... Isn’t it?