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He walks around the bar again to sit beside me. “Sure. Get the mood back on track.”

I slap my hands on my thighs, then I lift my palm. “Ew…” Purple paint covers it.

“Here.” Chad stands in his chair, reaching for the roll of paper towels. “Let me get you something to change into.”

He crosses the living room to what I now see is a bedroom off to the side. Scrubbing the paint off my hand, I inspect my jeans, wondering if this crap will ever come out. It smells like gasoline.

My lip curls, and I call after him. “If you’re bringing me clothes, I can’t imagine you own anything that would fit me.”

He’s back pretty fast, changed into sweat pants and a white undershirt. My eyebrows shoot up, and I tear my eyes away from his crotch before he catches me staring. It looks like a snake swinging heavy and low in those pants. An Anaconda. I want to touch it.

Again, Holy shit is on repeat in my head.

“How’s this?” He holds out a large, navy tee and a pair of dark blue boxer shorts.

I take them, loving the way they smell. “I’ll be swimming in these.”

“I’ve got this.” He jogs around into the kitchen again, pulling a narrow drawer open and digging in it. “What do you think?”

He’s holding an enormous safety pin. “What the hell… Are you MacGyver? Where did you get that?”

He frowns as if trying to remember. “I think it was on some dry cleaning. I figured it might come in handy one day, so I threw it in the sauce drawer.”

“The sauce drawer?”

“You know, where you throw all the sauce packets. Don’t you watch SNL?”

“Not enough.” I hold out my hand, palm up. “Hand it over.”

I’m changed and pinned in his boxers in no time, the shirt knotted in the front. He has two more beers on the bar waiting when I return, and when he notices I’m not wearing a bra, I see the same struggle on his face as when I saw his trouser snake.

Glad to know I’m not the only one enjoying the view.

Pretending like I don’t notice, I slide my pal

m over the bright red circle on my thigh faintly shaded from the paint that seeped through the denim.

“Looks like I got punched in the leg.”

Concern replaces lust, and he crosses to me quickly. “Does it hurt? I have an ice pack…”

“I think it’ll be okay. It might leave a bruise, though.”

“Sorry.”

“What’s this?” I point to the bar where the beers are waiting.

He gestures to them. “You wanted to play a game… Quarters?”

I snort and frown. “No.”

“Truth or dare?”

“Never.” I’ve been burned too many times by that game.

“I’m all out. What you got?”

Climbing on the stool, I run through the least offensive drinking games I know. “Never Have I Ever?”