Page 18 of The Romance Line
Right now, I really should respond to theif it isn’t my brand-new babysitterwith something like “I don’t plan to be your babysitter, but I do look forward to working more closely. Let’s set a time to review strategies.”
And yet the words that fly out of my mouth are dripping with pure sass and served with a syrupy smile as I fight fire with sarcastic fire. “Actually, I preferprofessionalbabysitter, Lambert.”
Grabbing a towel and wiping his hands then the back of his neck, he says dryly, “I prefer none of this.”
“And I see we’re in the no stage,” I say like a preschoolteacher. Wow, does he bring out my worst behavior too? I think he does. But since I’m on a roll, I stroll into the weight room and add, “Alternatively, you could call me your makeup artist,” I say then dust my fingertips against my cheekbones like a fabulous YouTube makeup influencer. I even add a pout for effect. “Would that be more amenable?”
After he sets down the towel on the weight bench, he grumbles, “I don’t wear makeup.”
And I don’t back down. I step closer. “Then think of me as your brand-new…attitude coach,” I say with the most over-the-top smile. Two can play this game after all.
Slowly, he rises from the weight bench, stretches his neck from side to side, then takes his sweet time staring me down. His height is intimidating. That steely gaze is penetrating, unwavering. My pulse stutters from the way he stares, and I hold my breath. No wonder other teams are afraid of him. He arches a dubious brow as he eyes me up and down, then says with a smirk, “Coach? More like drill instructor.”
I breathe a small sigh of relief. At least he’s no longer saying no. “That’s me,” I say.
“I can’t believe I have a fucking drill instructor,” he says, as he drags a hand over his beard, a distracting move because his hand is so big, and his beard is so beardy, and my mind is so traitorous wondering how that scruff would feel against me.
Shake that all the way the fuck off, girl.
I fasten on a smile to counteract my dirty thoughts. “Then I suppose we should discuss when boot camp begins? Bright and early tomorrow at 0600?” I ask even though I know he won’t actually show up then, nor do I want him to. I need to devise a battle plan first.
“This is boot camp all right.”
“And I trust you’ll be a good soldier at Good Guy Boot Camp?” My smile widens, selling this most fabulous boot camp.Right. Sure. But a girl can try.
He doesn’t answer right away. Just picks up his towel, tosses it on top of his gym bag by the weight bench, then looks back at me, expression stony. I could snap a pic of him and slap the caption:The Max Lambert Gloweracross it right now. “Rosewood, you do know the last thing I want is a makeover, right?”
My smile promptly vanishes, and I heave a frustrated sigh. He makes it so hard to be sunshine sometimes. “Yes, Max, I picked up on that from context clues,” I say dryly, even though I know—I absolutely know—that’s the wrong approach with him. Like a GPS rerouting in a new direction, I try again, opting for straightforward and honest. “Listen, I get that this image revamp is the last thing you want. I understand it’s a personal affront to the—” I stop and wave an arm in front of him, dangerously close to the strong pecs that stretch his T-shirt quite nicely. Too nicely. I focus on finishing the thought. “…the whole fuck-off-world mystique you have going on. But the reality is?—”
He comes closer, his mouth amused. “Mystique? You think I have a mystique?” It’s asked with avid curiosity.
I should be nice. I should be nice.I really should be nice.“It wasn’t entirely a compliment,” I say.
His grin turns smug. “You sure about that?”
“Umm, yes, why?”
“Mystique does mean a fascinating aura of mystery, awe, and power surrounding someone or something.”
Fuck him. “Are you doubling as a dictionary?”
“No. I looked it up the other night when I came acrossit in this online class I’m taking. And you did say mystique, ergo, that sounds like a compliment.”
There’s entirely too much to unpack in that statement—Max takes online classes?—but now’s not the time to delve into his hobbies so I bookmark that in my head. “Yes, I know what the word means.”Deep breath. You can do this. Don’t let him get to you. If I’m going to have to give him charm lessons, I might as well lead by being charming myself. “Max, let’s give you a whole new mystique then.” I wave a hand toward him like a magician sprinkling, I don’t know, now-you-see-it-now-you-don’t dust. “The mystique of marketability.”
He pauses for a second, his eyes hard, but then he sighs as he slumps down to the bench once again. He drags a hand through his wild, messy hair. It’s not quite shoulder-length—it’s more unkempt-length, and it works for him. It’s dark, a little long, a lot messy, like you’ve just run your fingers through it. “Yeah, I guess we have to. And I thought hell was line drills in full pads after a loss.”
I shudder. That does sound awful, and I feel a pang of sympathy for him. This really must be hard for the man. “Does Coach McBride make you do that still?” I ask.
“No way. That was youth hockey. But the memory still stings.”
Be charming. Be sweet. Be upbeat.“I promise this will be better than line drills. Just imagine you’re the Beast when he has his claws filed and hair styled.”
He narrows his eyes and snarls like a beast when he says, “No bows. I will not wear a bow in my hair.”
And I’m finding my rhythm since I say playfully, “Someone knows hisBeauty and the Beast.”
“Yes, I do, sunshine.”