Page 15 of Over & Out (Redbeard Cove #3)

Somewhere outside our bubble, I hear the gurgle of the espresso machine and see Cindi milling around.

But all I can focus on is Chris. Chris with her hip cocked as she leans against the counter, ponytail brushing the soft curve of her cheek.

She’s so focused on what she’s doing, the tip of her tongue sticks out between her teeth. The whole thing is mesmerizing.

She finishes off the drawing with waxed ends on my mustache that go out to the edge of the page, and a unibrow that looks like Sasquatch fell asleep on my forehead.

When she turns the photo toward me, I try to glower. I got absolutely pummeled with the ugly stick. Chris looks so gleeful, though, that I have to bite my cheek hard to keep from laughing.

“Wow.” I hold my phone up. “May I? The artist with the art?”

She hams for the camera with a big, wide grin, looking—no, not cute. Fucking…beautiful. I think it’s the first time I’ve seen her genuinely smile, and for a moment, I can’t move. I feel like I’ve been sucked right into the sun.

“Are you done?” she asks through her smile.

“Just one more,” I say, like I haven’t been frozen in place.

“Let me see.”

Luckily I angled the phone at the last minute to not just focus on her. She frowns when I’m done, inspecting the photo. “Damn it, I forgot all the pimples.”

Okay, this is better. Roasting is safe. Staring and her smiling and taking photos is not .

I pocket my phone. “I do not have pimples.”

“That’s because of your fifty-seven-step skincare routine.”

“Soap and water. So two. Three if you count the towel.” Admittedly, hair and makeup always slather ten different creams on my face when I’m filming. But I don’t tell her that.

“Of fucking course,” Chris says. “Men can wash their face with motor oil and still look flawless.”

I smirk. “Wow. You think I’m flawless.”

“Clearly not!” She waves the photo around.

“Alrighty,” Cindi interjects. “If you children are about finished, I’ve got your coffees.”

Chris’s cheeks pinken again. What did the color scale call that? French rose , I think.

She reaches for her travel mug. “Thank you, Cindi.” She takes a sip and hums appreciatively. “This is amazing.”

A little dab of foam crests her upper lip, and her tongue darts out to retrieve it, followed by her index finger. The whole thing takes about a second, but to me, it’s like a two-hour movie, and I’m on the edge of my fucking seat.

Cindi lifts a brow, and I realize I’ve been caught ogling my assistant.

I scowl, grabbing my black coffee. “Yes, thank you, Cindi.” The words come out kind of sarcastic, and both women roll their eyes at me. “I meant it,” I mumble as I take a sip. I’m soundly ignored.

After saying our goodbyes to Cindi, Chris declares it’s time for us to go.

She sets her shoulders back and heads for the hallway, her ponytail flipping in a way that has me jamming my hand in my pockets to fight the urge to run it through my fingers.

I start to sweat before remembering I need to follow her.

This needs to stop. I need to stop.

“Your appointment is at ten,” Chris says, all breezy as she reaches the foyer. When I don’t say anything, she looks over her shoulder at me.

When she does, I freeze, getting the strangest flash of déjà vu. Something about the way she looks doing that seems so familiar.

She’s asked me something, but I’ve completely missed it.

She turns fully around. “Is there something wrong?”

I saw her do that at the restaurant, I think. Look over her shoulder at me with a haughty little shake of her hips.

But even thinking of her hips isn’t enough to distract me. I don’t think it’s the restaurant.

But I’m fully staring now, and she’s starting to look concerned. “No,” I say, my voice a little louder than I intended.

“You sure?”

“I’m fine,” I snap. “Didn’t you say it was time to go?”

She rolls her eyes, apparently satisfied that I’m just being my normal idiot self. “Okay. So it’s a forty-minute drive down to Swan River. I was going to stop to pick up your shake things, since Aziz says you’re a picky little B about the flavors, but I think we have to do that on the way back.”

I give my head a mental shake. Then a physical one, since her back is to me again as she reaches for her shoes .

“Forty minutes? I guess that tracks for you,” I say.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I do it in thirty. But you’re a slow driver. I get it. Everyone is in this town. Small-town girl.”

Chris looks offended. “Slow?” She jams her feet into her shoes.

No, not shoes, but hot little ankle boots with tabs she’s hooked a finger through to pull onto her feet.

She pulls the second one on, her dainty little ankle disappearing inside the sleek black leather.

I have to fight tooth and nail to keep my gaze from drifting up the length of her legs to the roundness of her ass as she bends over.

But I won’t do that. This is my assistant, so I’ll weirdly fixate on her boots like a good boy.

“You saw me pull out of here last week,” she says. “I was not going slowly.”

Luckily she’s standing now. But then she shrugs into this giant wool coat, and when she flips her ponytail out of the collar, her throat long and chin high, I have to suppress a groan.

I focus on my own shoes, seriously worried about my sanity at this point. How easily my convictions fly out the window when it comes to thoughts of Chris.

“You were pissed off that day,” I manage. “I figured that was why you were driving all weird.”

If her cheeks go pink again, I make sure I don’t see it.

“Why do you suppose I was pissed off that day? Maybe it was because of the big oaf who lives here doing big oaf things!”

I slip on my sneakers and pull my coat over my shoulders, trying very hard not to laugh. Oaf ?

Chris pulls her bag onto her shoulder. “I don’t drive erratically, by the way. I’m always in control.”

“It’s okay.” I reach over and pull the front door open.

“I said my prayers this morning when I woke up,” I say as I wait for her to go through.

That’s not even a joke, not if I count the little notes I write in the book I bought the day after she said she’d stay.

“It worked when I asked God not to let you ring the gong,” I continue.

I follow her out into the damp morning, trying to ignore the scent of her still lingering in my nose after she slipped past me.

“So I’m hopeful about the highway.” I rub my chin as if contemplating.

“It does run along the side of a mountain, though…and has all those blind corners. You know what? CGI is good these days. They can just Photoshop me into the movie posthumously.”

“I think you’re praying to the wrong deity, Donnach.”

This time I let myself grin at her back as she struts down the path toward the detached garage.