Her face lights up with surprise as she giggles. She opens her mouth to answer, but nothing comes out. Me having a sense of humor has floored her. Dammit, Livie’s right. I am an ice queen.
I quickly add, “Besides, I owe you for last week. It’s the least I can do after pulling out Hannah—the dirtiest of all weapons.” I smile and it’s not forced. “I’ll just be going through the jobs section so I may as well do that in this paradise.”
She frowns. “Starbucks not working out?” Livie must have told her because I sure didn’t.
“It’s fine, but the pay’s shit. If I want to live of Spam and scrape blue spots off of bread for the rest of my life, I can make it work.”
She nods, thinking. “You guys should come over for dinner tonight.” I open my mouth to decline the charity and she adds, “as my thanks to Livie for taking care of Mia today.” There’s something in that tone, a mixture of forced bravery, but also a level of natural authority that makes me slam my mouth shut.
“And …” she shifts her feet a bit hesitantly, like she’s not sure if she should say what’s on her mind, “… do you know how to mix drinks?”
“Uh …” I blink rapidly at the sudden change in topic. “Isn’t it a little early in the day for that?”
She smiles, her perfect teeth gleaming. “Like martinis and Long Islands?”
“I pour a mean tequila shot.” I offer half-heartedly.
“Well, I can talk to my boss and see if he’ll hire you, if you’re interested. I bartend at a club. The money’s good.” Her eyes widen with those last words. “Like, really good.”
“Bartender, huh?”
She grins. “So, what do ya think?”
Could I handle it? I don’t say anything, trying to picture myself behind a bar. The visual ends with me smashing a bottle and kicking a grabby customer in the head.
“I should probably warn you, though.” She hesitates. “It’s an adult club.”
I feel the frown line zip across my forehead. “Adult like …”
“Strippers.”
“Oh …” Of course. I look down at myself. “Yeah, I’m a ‘keep clothes on in crowds’ kind of girl.”
Storm’s hands wave my words away. “No, don’t worry. You wouldn’t have to strip. I promise.”
Me? Work in a strip club? “You think I’d fit in, Storm?”
“Can you handle being surrounded by sex, booze, and loads of cash?”
I shrug. “Sounds like my teenage years, minus the cash.”
“Can you learn how to smile a bit more?” she asks with a nervous giggle.
I flash her my best fake grin.
She nods with approval. “Good. I think you’ll do well behind the bar. You have a look they’ll like.”
I snort. “What look? The ‘I just got off a bus from Michigan and I’ll do anything for money so I don’t have to eat Spam’ look?”
The corners of her eyes crinkle as she giggles. “Think about it and let me talk to my boss. It’s really good money. You wouldn’t have to eat Spam again. Ever.” With that, she skips up the stairs.
I think about it. I think about it as I watch Storm and Mia’s clothes spin around in circles. I think about it as the timer goes off and I flip the clothes over into the dryer and start two new loads. I think about it as I sort and fold their freshly clean clothes into neat piles and reload the hamper, paying a little too much attention to the skimpy outfits in Storm’s pile. Like a tiny black top that looks like a cross between a sequined sports bra and something a wild animal mangled. I hold it up. Does she serve drinks or her body in this? That would explain her ridiculous boobs. Wow. I might be making friends with a stripper. That’s sounds weird. And then I acknowledge that I’m going through her underwear. That sounds way weirder.
“Tell me where you wear that so I can be there to witness it.” His deep voice startles me again.
I gasp as my head whips around to see Trent strolling toward me with a laundry bag slung over his shoulder. My breath hitches at the sight of him and those deep dimples he flashes shamelessly. It’s been more than two weeks since I bumped into him here, yet seeing him instantly ignites a fire within me.
Again, with the laundromat? What are the chances? Inhaling deeply, I force myself to relax. I’m better prepared this time. I won’t act like a space cadet. I won’t let his beautiful face disarm me. I won’t … “Well, well. The Laundromat Lurker strikes again.”
Trent smirks as his attention grazes over my body, stopping to survey the tattoo on my thigh for a moment before flittering back up to my face. By the time they get there, my pulse is racing and I think I may need to change my underwear. Dammit. Here we go again. “Round two,” I mutter before I can stop myself.
His eyebrow quirks with surprise as he moves toward the open washer.
I try not to ogle his body through his fitted white t-shirt, watching him dump a set of white sheets into the wash. “You wash your sheets a lot,” I observe coolly, thinking that’s a fairly innocuous comment.
Trent’s hands pause for a second and then he continues, chuckling and shaking his head but saying nothing. He doesn’t need to. I’ve clued into what my observation could imply and I groan inwardly, fighting the urge to smack myself in the forehead, my face growing even warmer. Any upper hand I thought I had when he walked in just dissolved into a hot mess at my feet.
I’m sure his sheets see a lot of action. He’s got to have a girlfriend. Someone like him must have a girlfriend. Or a string of f**k buddies. Either way, now I want to crawl into a hole and hide until he leaves.
“What can I say? It’s hot in Miami without A/C,” he offers after a moment as if to ease the awkwardness. That’s what I fool myself into thinking anyways, until he throws in, “even without clothes, I wake up boiling,” and deftly layers on to my mortification.
Trent sleeps naked. My mouth dries as my focus unavoidably latches onto his frame again. On the other side of my living room wall is this god, in a bed, lying naked. Though I thought impossible, my pulse quickens even further.
I open my mouth to change topics, but I can’t grasp onto anything coherent. Words swim inside my head, stringing into gibberish. I can’t come up with one damn remotely intelligent answer. Not one. Me, who can crack orgy jokes and crush arrogant ball sacks with the best of them, is floored. He has smoothly splintered my defensive shield with nothing but bed sheets and a naked visual.
And those damn dimples.
I watch the muscles in his shoulders shift as he pours detergent into the machine. Who knew doing laundry could be sexy. When he turns to me and winks, I jump.
“You okay?” he asks.
I nod and try to make an affirmative sound but it comes out sounding like a strangled cat and I’m sure my entire head has caught on fire now.
He slams the lid on the washer and pushes the coins in to start the wash, then turns to me, leaning in. “To be honest, I saw you walking past me with your laundry and I grabbed the first thing I could think to wash.”
Wait … what’s he saying? I shake my head to kick the haze out. I think he’s telling me something important.
He grins as he pushes a hand back through his unkempt hair. I want to do that, I think, involuntarily flexing my fingers. Please let me do that. In fact, I want to do all kinds of things to him. Right here in this dingy basement. On the washer. On the floor. Anywhere. I battle the urge to lunge at him like a rabid animal. Hell, I’m panting like one right now.