Page 19 of About Yesterday (Foothills #5)

The cat is out of the bag

B lowjobs and panties. Holy fucking shit. Cole was in way over his head. Trace touching him and talking about very intimate things with him… how in the hell did she think she was boring?

He rubbed a fluffy white gym towel over his face, his cheeks flaming long after his pulse had calmed down after the workout.

Imagination running wild with ideas of Trace in black lace, he glanced toward her, then quickly away again, chugging his water to cool his system, fast. At least she’d been smart enough to back off when he’d been about to make a move.

Trace bit her lip as she circled toward the door. “Wow. Shit. I’m worried your red cheeks aren’t from the workout, but from the freight train of inappropriate ramblings I unloaded on you.”

“A hot freight train, but, yeah, ya did,” he said, laughing his ass off as she looked ready to bolt.

As she reached the door, he ran to catch up, his ankle screaming at him.

“Wait. Trace. I need to know, because I don’t remember you having even the slightest of self-esteem issues.

What happened, to make you doubt yourself like this? ”

“That very boring date with a man more boring than I am. Some lousy breakups. Last summer,” she said, releasing a hefty sigh.

“I don’t do fun things anymore. Maybe I never was that fun.

Whatever. Since coming home, I’ve been ticking off all the boxes to live well and feel confident, but, I guess it’s harder than I realized, living your best life and all.

I can’t seem to get a solid grasp of it. Of me, of life, all of it.”

“Like having what should be epic sex, but you’re too drunk to orgasm?” Cole quickly closed his eyes and hoped to hell she could still take it as good as she dished it.

Trace snorted a laugh and shook her head at him. “Actually, yes. But self-esteem is not as fleeting as intoxication.”

“Lace panties and blowjobs will definitely make you feel much more confident,” he teased, unable to resist, in hot pursuit of her scrunchy-nosed grin.

She paused and looked back over her shoulder, ready to burst out laughing again. “It’s called symbolism,” she teased. “Or dressing for the job you want. Or faking it until making it. You should come to my poetry elective, if you have questions.”

Pulse thundering faster than the workout had induced, he scrambled to keep up.

“Let’s head into Seattle one of these days.

I’ll get a haircut and invest in a new wardrobe that makes me feel confident and comfortable, while you symbolically take that imposter syndrome by the horns via buying black lace. ”

“Okay,” she said softly, her eyes lighting up as she seemed to be making a shopping list already. “Getting out of town to bust out of my frumpy shell is probably the way to go.”

A smile twitched at the corners of his lips as he indulged in baiting her. “If you want opinions, you can try stuff on and model some black lace getups and I’ll let you know if they’re too frumpy.”

Tipping her head back, she grinned wide and hooted a laugh. “No.”

“We could make a whole arrangement out of this. Blowjob imposter syndrome? It’s all about practice. I could help—“

“No.”

“I meant you can practice on a cucumber, and I’ll give you tips.”

She was laughing so hard she leaned into him and smacked him on the tummy. Head against his collarbone, she patted him again and pushed off his pec. Shaking her head, she bit her lips, then said, “Next weekend. Clothes, haircut, and no cucumbers.”

“Would a carrot make you feel more comfortable?” He gnawed on the edge of his tongue, taming his wicked grin. “Less realistic, honestly, but cucumbers can be intimidating.”

“No vegetables,” she said, nibbling that bottom lip before turning the knob and looking back at him with a wildly flirty grin he’d never been on the receiving end of from her.

“Banana?”

“Tomorrow, six a.m., right here, you pick the workout. Next weekend, I will pick out clothes that I want, while you do your own shopping.”

As she pulled the door open and walked away, he said low enough she probably couldn’t hear, “It’s a date.”

By the time he hobbled into the kitchen, Jeremy was at the kitchen table, laptop out, and he heard Trace reach the landing and keep on running.

Jeremy smiled as he neared. “Sounds like you’re ready to start taking the bull by the horns,” he said, lowering his reading glasses and stretching his arms wide.

Sounds like? What all had he heard? “Something like that,” he admitted, keeping it vague.

“When Trace saw my blood sugar, she moved in all those dang weights and mats, and got us all on track,” he said, patting his tummy that was flatter than it had been even a month ago.

“She’s a force,” Cole said as he made his way to the fridge.

Maybe she didn’t realize it, but it sounded like she was well on her way to finding her confidence again.

Suddenly ravenous, he pulled out some egg bites—one of the lower carb additions to the bakery that Ellen was testing—and shoved them in the microwave.

Hell, he probably ought to fix something for Trace.

“Do you know if Trace has eaten yet?”

Without batting an eye, Jeremy nodded. “Who do you think is feeding Ellen all those ideas on low carb foods?”

After wolfing down a quick breakfast, he made his way upstairs. Trace was already done in the shower and closed in her bedroom. Good. At least a few minutes to clear his head before accidentally talking about her panties again.

He climbed in the shower, grateful as hell to have full use of his body parts, even if it still hurt like hell and not everything had back its full motion or strength, but no more damn slings or boots.

He scrubbed his hair and beard, carefully, only lifting his arm as high as he was comfortable with, gaining a millimeter a week, at best.

The mirror had fogged over, and he ducked down to get a good look under the steam. He did look like hell. Not his best look, the unkept scruff. He opened a drawer to look for scissors.

A friendly cluster of taps on the door interrupted his search. He fisted his hand on the knot holding up his towel and leaned over to release the lock.

Trace was wearing a pair of jeans that spectacularly showed off her thighs, with a simple but sexy pink t-shirt and a wide black belt. Hair still damp from her shower, her curls were outrageous. How did she not realize she was hot as hell?

“Hey,” he said, leaning back and holding the towel securely.

“Hi,” she said, nodding beyond him toward the heart of the bathroom, subtly asking for an invitation inside. “Sore?”

“I don’t think I’m going to be able to walk tomorrow,” he laughed and backed up a step to let her in. “In a good way. Mostly.”

She opened the drawer he’d just been searching, immediately finding the scissors he’d been unable to find. She patted the vanity counter and said, “Sit.”

He laughed and did as she said, checking that his towel was secure before moving his hands and bracing them on the counter. “What’s on your mind?”

She snapped the scissors a few times and waggled her eyebrows. “The beard’s got to go.”

He brushed his fingers over the matted junkiness and feigned offense. “Not Beardy. I was just starting to bond with him.”

“Beardy has potential, but he’s a little scraggly. You might consider starting over again if you want to level him up.” She tilted her head and studied him. “You would look good with a full beard.”

“Trust me, I don’t,” he muttered, looking down and drawing his gaze up to gauge her reaction. “I must have been seventeen or eighteen the last time you saw me trying to rock the patchy stubble. It is thicker now.”

She tugged it gently and nibbled her lip. “I do love that five o’clock shadow look. But Beardy looks like hell. No offense.”

“None taken,” he admitted, looking up as she came at him with shears from hell. “Bye bye Beardy.”

Neither said a word as the bathroom fan hummed, the fog from their showers slowly lifting, and coiled hairs plummeted as she snipped. Focus intense, she traced her tongue over the points of her canines as she calculated her next move.

He didn’t budge. His seventeen-year-old self would have been at full erection, desperately tugging her close and plunging his tongue in her mouth, having her so close, him so undressed, and that intense look she was giving him.

He kept still, kept quiet, and watched.

Seemingly satisfied with her scissor job, she opened the drawer and scowled, then opened the next drawer down. Finally, she popped up with a peach-lidded, apricot-scented can of foam. He parked his tongue behind his teeth and angled a look.

Her ginger eyebrows drew together, and she set the can down long enough to grab him by the jaw and aim his head so he looked at her straight on.

Shaving cream shcrooshed into her palm. Hair grinding against foam and fingers, she worked it into the trimmed wires of his beard.

She turned on the faucet and ran it until steam puffed from the flowing stream. She opened the drawer again and drew out a fresh blade, then turned toward the shower and pulled the razor from the shelf.

Not moving, not daring to interrupt, he clutched the vanity counter under his palms, sitting and watching her think through every step. Finally, she took position facing him, framed between his knees, her focus narrowed in on her project.

Studying him , calculating, she lifted the blade and tilted her head as she made each careful move, scraping the blade smoothly over his cheeks, his jaw, staying with the grain and a hell of a lot more careful than he would be.

Scrape by scrape, she cleared the scruff.

She pinned his chin between her thumb and forefinger and studied her handiwork.

Voice low, soft with focus in the still of the room, she said, “Aftershave. It’s a thing I’ve heard of, but I have no idea what or why.

I just put lotion on after I shave my legs. And places.”