Besides, I have a scene to attend.
And tonight’s scene involves turning the tables on her.
I’m ripping off her panties, and she’s going to wear red.
Red. Flipping red.
Which won’t help my resistance.
Hence, the hour and a half I spend at the gym with the weights.
And on the treadmill.
And the elliptical too, for good measure.
As I leave, Linc walks in with Amy beside him. From the looks of it, she’s showing him how her phone slides into the pocket of her bright-pink exercise pants.
She removes it with the showmanship of a magic trick. “See? We seriously need to plan a gift book about all the little things in life that bring joy, from pockets to hedgehogs to peeling a clementine in one strip,” I hear her say.
Linc nods thoughtfully. “What about oranges though?”
“It’s impossible to peel an orange in one go.”
I cross their path, stopping to cut in on their conversation. “It’s not impossible. Ever tried a mandarin?”
Amy blinks. “I stand corrected.”
“Also, some grapefruits can be disrobed in one fell swoop,” I say, then I realize I just walked into innuendo quicksand.
I wait for Amy to take the bait, to toss out something like “But how many licks does it take to disrobe a redhead wearing the sexiest pair of panties you’ve ever seen?”
But she doesn’t say that. What’s stranger is that she says nothing. Amy rarely takes the fifth.
Linc simply raises a brow. “Have fun tonight.”
Amy smiles, shooting me a friendly grin. “May the force of romance novels be with you.”
They walk past the weight machines, and I scratch my jaw. It’s unlike the two of them to resist wordplay.
It’s almost as if they have some sort of secret.
Or something they don’t want to say.
But hell if I can figure out what it means.
Or if it means anything at all.
I return home, and as I walk into my building, my phone pings with a text.
Peyton: Are your teeth nice and sharp?
Tristan: Yes. I gnawed on a tree earlier today. Hung out with a pack of beavers. Chowed down.
Peyton: Excellent. So they’re perfectly pointy.
I reach the stairwell and take the steps two by two as I answer her.
Tristan: Definitely. Let me guess—you want to test out a scene where the hero rips duct tape with his teeth before he hoists a couch on one shoulder?
Peyton: Yes. I want you to do lots of manly stuff like that.
Tristan: Manly stuff, check.
Peyton: Also, it turns out that not only does the hero in this book like to shred panties . . . he likes to shred them with his teeth.
I trip.
My phone flies out of my hand and skids across the concrete landing as I fall on the staircase, tumbling over my own feet.
My knee smarts, screaming from the impact. Glancing behind me, I see no one there to witness my stumble, and I breathe a huge sigh of relief.
Hell, that was more than a stumble.
That belongs on epic fails on YouTube. That should be a PSA not to text while walking up stairs.
Or down stairs.
I push up and grab my phone. Dragging my hand through my hair, I shake off the momentary pain, but I can’t shake off the thought of tonight’s task.
Testing the rip-ability of panties with my hands would have been challenging enough. A true feat of strength, but not an insurmountable one, since she’d be wearing the “bathing-suit-style birthday suit,” her words. She said she planned to wear a thong under the lace panties I was supposed to tear off her.
What was I supposed to say to that?
Thanks, but no thanks?
My brain was shouting hell yeah to any and all of those options. Aloud, I’d kept it to a simple “Sure.”
Now, she doesn’t want me to rip her panties off with my hands. She wants me to use my teeth.
Which means my face will be this close to heaven.
I don’t know if this is a gift from the angels or a temptation by the devil, but my money is on the latter, especially after she sends me a few hundred words from the scene.
I’m so screwed.
I push open the door to my floor, stride down the hall, and unlock my apartment.
Music assaults my ears, but in a good way.
A hip-hop song blasts across the apartment, which is filled with the scent of something yummy. Is that cookie dough? Or baked pretzels? Or both?
Whichever, the smell and the music take my mind off of devils and angels.
After shutting the door, I head into the kitchen. Barrett is laughing, his back to me, stirring batter in a mixing bowl and shaking his hips while Rachel sings into a spatula microphone.
Head back, eyes closed, she belts out some Adele-like harmony, layering onto the tune.
Barrett joins in, stirring and singing and laughing.
“Hey there.”
Barrett swivels around, waves a spoon at me. Rachel beams, shouting, “Hi, Mr. Alexander!” over the song.
Barrett reaches for his phone, lowering the volume. “Yo.”
I meet our guest’s eyes. “Rachel, you don’t have to call me Mr. Alexander.”
“I do though. You’re a mister! How are you, Mr. Alexander?” She flashes her bright smile at me, looking like a teenage Anna Kendrick, as Peyton once described her.
“Excellent. What are you two up to?”
“We’re baking cookie dough pretzels, and then we’re going to take them to some of the tech crew tonight,” Barrett offers, his grin matching hers. Damn, he lights up when she’s around—I’m talking Broadway-marquee wattage.
“Yeah, because the tech crew needs love too,” Rachel says, offering a palm to high-five.
He smacks it, snickering, and they have an insider humor going on. Maybe he has manned up? I smile privately, hoping he’ll have his heart’s desire—the girl he adores.
Rachel returns to the batter, tossing a question over her shoulder. “And what are you up to, Mr. Alexander?”
“I’m going to see Peyton in a few,” I say.
“Not dressed like that, I hope?” she asks.
I glance down at my basketball shorts and sweat-soaked T-shirt.
“Ladies don’t like basketball shorts, don’t you know that?” Barrett teases, flashing me an evil grin as he lobs my fashion advice back at me.
I pluck at the shirt. “I’m obviously not wearing this to see her.”
Rachel wipes a flour-covered hand dramatically across her forehead. “Good. Because I was going to have to go all fashion police on you.”
“And what exactly are you doing tonight with Miss Valencia?” Barrett asks oh so casually.
“Just hanging out.”
They burst into matching peals of laughter.
Rachel points at me. “You’re blushing, Mr. Alexander.”
Ah, hell. Am I as red as a tomato? No way. “I’m not.”
“Hey, handsome,” Barrett says in a torch-singer tone. “Why don’t you put on a corset and go see the one you want?”