Folk Around and Find Out (Good Folk: Modern Folktales #2)(56)
“Don’t worry, I have plenty of sunscreen and bug spray,” she said. Her fingers lowered inside the collar of my T-shirt and I squeezed my eyes shut to keep from groaning as something hotter than a Tennessee summer raced to the base of my spine.
She stepped to the side and behind me, rubbing the whole time and working me into a lather. The way she kneaded my shoulders felt like a massage. Clearly, it had been way too long since I’d been touched by a woman.
Then again, I’d never experienced a reaction like this from something so benign as applying sunscreen lotion. It’s the woman. This woman.
“But the liquor delivery will be here in the next half hour. They were also late,” she said, the statements making no sense to me in my present state.
Withdrawing her hands, Charlotte was apparently finished applying my sunscreen. I missed her touch immediately, and some unhinged instinct tempted me to take off my shirt and ask her to do my back. And front.
Stepping around to face me once more—but not standing quite as close now that I’d been painted in sunscreen—she wiped at the side of her face with the shirt laying on her shoulder.
“What do you want to do?” she asked, peering up at me. “Do you want me to wait for the delivery? Louis can help, but someone needs to take payment for the car wash.”
“Delivery . . .” I parroted, dazed, my attention not knowing where to settle. Everywhere was equally good. Her hair was up in a ponytail. Sweat beaded and collected on her upper lip, dripped down her neck, and rolled between the swell of her absolutely fucking fantastic, perfection-personified breasts. At one point, she must’ve been sprayed with a hose. She was damp, and that made me want—
“Delivery!” The meaning of her monologue finally dawned on me and I brought both my hands up, balling them into fists. “Shit. The delivery.”
“Yep. That’s why I was here so early this morning.” She placed her hands on her hips, surveying me. “Dave and Hector weren’t feeling well last night—some sort of stomach bug. I told them to take the morning off and I’d help bring in the crates. I hope that was okay?”
I nodded, speechless, trying and failing not to be distracted by how she dabbed at her chest and neck with the cotton shirt. She had another freckle, a beauty mark, on her shoulder. If I licked it now, I’d taste salt.
Put your tongue back in your mouth, son. There will be no licking.
I snapped my mouth shut again, almost biting my tongue.
She gave me a searching stare, then glanced down at herself. “Oh. Sorry. I know you said baggy T-shirts only, and to be fair, I was wearing the shirt when I arrived, but it is hotter than Satan’s laundromat in that club. You’re lucky I’m not in my underwear.”
“Yeah. Lucky.” I forced a smile and plucked my sunglasses from my shirt, sliding them back into place so I could hide my eyes and look my fill of the woman.
That’s right, I wanted to look my fill. There’d be no licking, but it wasn’t as though Charlotte would be working for me anymore. She’d given her notice. She’d never needed the money. We were no longer in an unequal power dynamic. We were equals, and there was nothing unprofessional about me checking her out. Nothing at all.
She’s got to work out. I’d never seen biceps like that on a woman. And she had a six-pack.
Despite her brilliance and creativity this morning, the presence of her kids and mother, and the general organized chaos happening mere feet away, it was on the tip of my tongue to ask her about her workout routine when she asked me, “Can I change?”
“Pardon?”
“Is it okay if I change into a swimsuit?” She plucked at her pants, looking uncertain. “All the girls are in theirs already, and so is Serafina. She was making bread this morning and the ovens warmed everything up.”
“I . . .” My mouth remained open even though no additional sound emerged. Is today my birthday?
“As soon as the AC is fixed, I’ll put my clothes back on, I promise. But my body is producing inappropriate sweat marks in these pants. I keep having to hose off.” She shuffled a step forward, gesturing to the white cotton on her shoulder. “I promise I’ll put this baggy T-shirt over my swimsuit, but it’s just so—”
“Hot.”
“Right.” A half smile pulled her mouth to one side. “When Shelly gets here, can I change?”
I pretended to consider her request. If Charlotte Mitchell wanted to put on a bathing suit and let me have that memory, who was I to tell her no?
“I’ll leave it up to you,” I finally said. “It’s not like I’m your boss anymore. If, uh, putting on a bathing suit makes you more comfortable, then you should do what you think is best.” A sudden thought occurred to me and I frowned, adding, “But no washing anyone’s car.”
Her lips parted, perhaps to protest, so I added, “Except mine. You can wash mine, if you want. But only behind the club. You’re not being paid to put on a show for these fellas and you’ve already done enough outside of your job description. I know it’s hot, but keep that T-shirt on.”
She laughed lightly, taking off her sunglasses, and I greedily gazed into her gorgeous green eyes. They were warm today, emerald, still assessing, and her small smile looked grateful. “Thank you. Hannah and April both said they thought it would be no big deal if I wore a swimsuit, but I wanted to triple-check with you first.”