“Do you want me to check the rest of the place?” I offer, selfishly. I can search for the videotape more efficiently if I’m supposed to be looking for something to begin with.
She hesitates, that stubborn, independent streak of hers keeping her from asking for more help. Finally, her disgust for rodents in the workplace must win out. “Maybe after I’m done with your design.”
I nod. That works. “How do you want me?”
She gives her head a subtle but noticeable shake, before clueing in. “Lying on your side, with your arm over your head, for the work. But I need to put your transfer on you first, so go stand over there.” She points to the other side of the table, where there’s more room and a full-length mirror propped up against the wall, and then busies herself with the music playlist on her phone, syncing it with the same little portable speaker she had out last night. When she ties her hair back into a ponytail, I notice the flush in her ears.
I smile to myself. That’s what she does. Ducks to hide her emotions when she can’t control them, when she’s most vulnerable. I’m sure that knowledge will come in handy later.
I shift over to take in my reflection as a slow, rhythmic song begins playing. “Are you trying to put me to sleep on your table?” The cushion on that bench looks soft enough, but I doubt it would be after that many hours. Then again, I’ve fallen asleep in much worse conditions than this.
“If you can sleep through a needle on your ribs, I’ll be impressed.”
“And what does impressing you get me?”
She exhales softly but doesn’t answer. I watch her reflection in the mirror as she turns and walks toward me, gloves on and spray bottle in hand. She slows to a pause, her pinched gaze on my back.
THIRTEEN
IVY
The scars are scattered across his back, from shoulder to kidney area. They make me flinch.
They make me think he isn’t just a soldier who survived boot camp and wore a uniform.
They make me think that he was hurt very badly.
They make me think that he’s seen a lot worse than I ever have.
I clear my throat, pushing those sad thoughts aside. “Okay, the end will reach down to where your belt sits. It’d be better if you pushed your jeans down a few inches.”
“Are you asking me to take off my pants, Ivy?”
There it is again. The words are flirtatious but his tone is entirely neutral. Almost sterile. But I can see his eyes in the mirror. They’re on me, sharp and perceptive and anticipating.
Waiting for my reaction.
“After seven hours under my needle, we’ll practically be married. You may as well unbuckle now,” I answer, gritting my teeth to keep from smiling like a fool who’s excited at the prospect of Sebastian flirting with me.
With one deft hand, he unfastens his belt and jeans. They slide a few inches to reveal the elastic band of Jockey boxer briefs. I doubt this guy owns even one overhyped name-brand item of clothing. He seems too practical.
A quick glance in the mirror shows me more of that line of dark hair running down from his navel and the prominent bulge below. It’s good to know that he didn’t lose any vital parts in whatever war he was a part of.
“Is that good?”
“It’ll do. Come here.”