Page 5

Jean didn’t usually bother making excuses to herself. Most choices boiled down to “because I wanted to.” You could dress it up in noble intentions, but that was the underlying truth.

And yet she found herself running through a list of reasons it made sense to go back to Sunset Cottage when her shift ended the next night:

Loneliness was a documented social problem, so it was basically a mission of mercy.

Her lucky deck of cards was right there, in her bag.

Maybe he’d let her draw him like one of her French girls, and live models were hard to come by.

She was actually showing restraint by waiting this long, considering how close she’d come to turning around last night and finishing what they’d started.

Not that this was a booty call, necessarily. There was plenty of fun to be had with her naked snakeologist beyond the physical. It was also true that there was such a thing as being too honest with yourself. You had to leave room for surprises, even within the confines of your own brain.

Bottom line: If she waited too long, he might be gone. If he was even still here, Jean told herself as she raised a hand to knock.

The sound of running footsteps was followed by a soft thud of impact that rattled the door before it cracked open. Snake Boy lit up at the sight of her, like Jean was the Easter Bunny driving an ice cream truck that was also full of puppies.

“You came back.” He glanced behind her, squinting into the darkness on either side of the path, before returning his attention to Jean with another shy grin.

“I forgot to pick up your wet towels.”

“Oh—”

“That was a joke, Dakota.” She kicked off her shoes before slipping past him.

“I thought you might forget,” he said, closing the door behind her.

“Mind like a steel trap.” She held up the small blue box. “I brought cards. Are you ready for some poker?”

“Oh! I… um.” Frowning slightly, he glanced over his shoulder. “Do you mind waiting here a second?”

With a shrug, she settled onto the couch as he hustled into the bedroom and shut the door.

What was he hiding in there? Besides his article in Snakearama .

Jean didn’t have long to wonder. The door flew open again a moment later and he zoomed into the kitchen before detouring back to the living room to set a sloshing glass of water on the coffee table in front of Jean.

“Would you like anything else?” he asked, a little breathless. “I have granola bars.”

Jean indicated the bag she’d set on the floor. “I brought snacks.”

“That was nice of you.” He leaned against the arm of the couch, smiling as if she’d wheeled in a three-tiered dessert cart instead of hitting the vending machines in the staff lounge. They stayed like that until he suddenly jerked upright, remembering his secret mission.

“I’ll be just a minute.” He held up a finger before dashing into his bedroom.

So far Jean gave him top marks for entertainment, and they hadn’t even started playing cards.

The muffled noise of drawers opening and closing, a heavy object being dragged across the floor, and hopping on one leg ensued, followed by a loud thud and some G-rated cursing. Did he have a pogo stick, or was there a pony on the loose?

“Everything okay in there?” Jean called.

“Almost done,” he assured her, sounding winded.

She sipped her room-temperature water, enjoying a pleasant sense of anticipation. Coming back here had definitely been the right call.

“Okay,” he panted, throwing the door open. “I’m ready.”

It took a few seconds to process what she was seeing. “Is it opposite day?”

“Why do you say that?” He looked down at his newly bulked-up torso.

“Because you went from zero to dressing like a sixty-year-old man.” She frowned at the rain poncho he’d draped over himself like a tent.

It couldn’t fully conceal the layers of padding beneath.

Jean thought there might be a sport coat under that cardigan, and she spotted the collars of at least three different shirts.

It looked like a suitcase worth of clothes.

“Did you catch a cold from running around naked, Dakota?”

He tugged at one of his shirttails. “It’s Charlie, actually.”

“Okay, Dakota Charlie.” She turned around, trying to decide where to set up. The bed looked comfortable, but even Jean recognized that as a bad idea, so she slid onto the carpet. “What’s the story? With this look you’re rocking. It’s giving ‘I didn’t want to check any bags.’”

It took him a few attempts to fold his heavily padded legs, but eventually he managed to join her on the floor. “Just trying to even the odds.”

“I hate to tell you this, but there are no weight classes in poker.” She paused to give him a flirty glance. “Unless you want to throw in a wrestling component. Greco-Roman poker could be a thing.”

His face flushed, though this time it might have been from the sauna effect of wearing so many outfits at once. “I know you’re going to be really good.”

Jean put a hand to her cheek, pretending to be scandalized. “Are you getting fresh with me, Charlie?”

“At poker,” he said, blushing harder. “I’ll probably have to take off everything and I didn’t want the game to be over too soon.”

Oh . He thought they were playing strip poker. Jean wanted to tease him, but one look at his face—slow-roasting atop his prison of many garments—told her that a) he was used to losing and b) he’d taken a lot of crap for his lack of gamesmanship.

“Good thinking,” she said, shuffling the deck. “Okay if we use my cards?”

“Sure.”

“ Bzzz .” Jean made a game-show-buzzer sound effect. “Never let someone else choose the deck. There are scammers everywhere.”

Wide-eyed, he started to get up. “I’ll go get mine.”

She put a hand on his knee to stop him. “It’s okay. You can trust me—at least with cards. Beyond that, you’re taking your chances.”

“Oh.” He laughed at himself. “I thought maybe it was a test.”

“Call it your first lesson. The second is that I’m an exception to most rules. Now cut.”

She tried to go easy on him, even though it went against her instincts.

Jean had never thrown a game of cards in her life.

Or anything else that could be gamified; once you made it a competition, she was all in.

In this case, she also felt strongly that he needed to get out of those clothes before he overheated, so there was a humanitarian aspect to consider.

Getting to see more of his skin as he gradually peeled away the layers was a bonus factor.

Not just for ogling purposes, but because she enjoyed watching him relax as the barrier of too much clothing eroded.

Divesting him of the final grandpa-style undershirt had been a favor to both of them.

Probably she should finish the job and take it outside for burning later.

“Sorry I’m not better at this.” He looked down at his stomach, brushing a few crumbs out of the light dusting of hair between his belly button and the waistband of his bathing suit.

Jean suspected he had at least one pair of underwear hidden beneath the trunks, which couldn’t be comfortable. The trick was getting him to strip without crushing his spirit.

“You’re a work in progress,” she said. “Which is my favorite kind.” That wasn’t blowing smoke. Jean had always loved the exploratory phase of making art—letting instinct and imagination drive the bus.

He seemed pretty cheerful despite the whupping she’d administered, shaking his head in amazement every time she won another hand. Her snake guy had a childlike capacity for delight. Jean was thinking about trotting out her supply of knock-knock jokes next.

“You’re so talented,” he said as he set down his lackluster hand, folding yet again.

“Oh yeah?” She gathered the cards and started shuffling without looking, fancying it up a little to impress him. This had the advantage of allowing her to watch him shimmy out of those shorts. More like three pairs of underwear, Jean guesstimated now that she could see the outermost layer.

He nodded, settling back to a cross-legged position before thinking better of it and bending his knees in front of him. His eyes were glued to her hands, hypnotized by the rapid movements.

“Don’t hold back, Doc.” She knocked her knee against his thigh.

“Not a doctor yet.” His smile dimmed. “I’m not like you.”

“I am also not a doctor,” Jean pointed out. “Though I have been known to role-play.” Even when she wasn’t trying to flirt, he kept teeing up opportunities no reasonable person could resist.

“You have incredible fine motor skills.” He twirled his fingers, probably imitating her rapid-fire card shuffling, though it looked more like he was trying to solve an invisible Rubik’s cube.

If that’s what he’d noticed about her, it was time to up her game. She slapped the deck face down on the table. “Let’s try something else.”

“You won’t get in trouble with your work?”

“What are you talking about?” She gave him her patented “sincere” look, widening her eyes and pursing her lips like a pinup.

“This is work. I’m your personal hospitality consultant.

It’s part of the service we provide. Your pleasure is our privilege.

” The eyebrow waggle was unnecessary, but enjoyable. Predictably, he blushed.

Jumping to her feet, Jean hurried into the kitchen as if this were her luxury bungalow, rejecting various condiments before grabbing the pepper grinder and carrying it back to the coffee table, where she set it on its side. Poking one end, she sent it into a wobbling spin.

“What game is this?”

“You’ve never played spin the bottle?”

He shook his head. “I guess I didn’t get invited to the right parties.”

“Imagine truth or dare, only it’s all dares. Your secrets are safe.”

Charlie exhaled in relief. An amateur would have chosen that moment to press for information, but Jean knew when to use a nail file instead of a sledgehammer.