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She flushed. “I don’t want a raise that I don’t deserve.”
“You deserve it,” he said. “I’ll talk to HR on Monday about it.”
“Well, thank you,” she said.
“You’re welcome. How is your foster mom doing?”
For a moment, she wondered if she was dreaming. Luke was being so friendly and downright chatty, and she’d never seen this side of him before.
“Jane?” he prompted.
“She’s good. She had a bad week, but I visited her tonight, and she was very alert.”
“That’s good.”
“I was starting to,” she paused, and he gave her an encouraging look, “I was starting to be afraid that she was lost forever. This was the longest stretch she’s gone with being this confused.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “That must be difficult for – shit!”
He had knocked the paint can with his arm, and she watched in horror as it tipped over and spilled down the front of his shirt. He grabbed the can, light blue paint coating his arms and hands and spilling onto the drop cloth on the floor as he uttered another string of curses. He finally righted the paint can and dropped the brush on the floor as he jumped off the step ladder.
Jane hurried forward, trying not to laugh as she stared at the paint soaking through his shirt.
“Fuck!” Luke said.
“Bend over,” she said.
He bent obediently, more paint dripping from his shirt to the floor, and she reached over him and grabbed the back of his shirt. She pulled it over his head and dropped it to the floor with a wet plop.
He straightened and stared at the paint on the drop cloth. “Christ, what a mess.”
She giggled as he held his paint-covered hands out in front of him. He gave her a mock scowl, and she laughed harder. “It’s just paint. You’ll be good as new with a little soap and water.”
“I look like a Smurf.”
“Yeah, you do,” she giggled.
He arched an eyebrow at her. “Be careful, or I’ll share.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” she said as he stepped toward her.
“Wouldn’t I?” he said with a wicked grin.
She started to back away. Luke’s grin widened, and he quickly wiped his hand across her flat abdomen. She stared at the smear of paint.
“Jerk!”
He laughed and smeared more paint on the thigh of her yoga pants. She suddenly bent and dipped both hands in the pool of paint on the drop cloth before slapping her hands against his flat abdomen.
He growled at her, an honest-to-god growl that sent a little shiver down her back, before grabbing her around the waist and yanking her toward him. She stumbled over his paint-sodden shirt and fell against his hard chest as he wiped more smears of paint across the back of her t-shirt.
She laughed and squirmed against him. “Stop!”
“It’s just paint,” he said. “A little soap and water, and you’ll be good as new.”
“Hey!” She squealed when he spread the paint in a line across her right cheek, and then her left before making one on her forehead.
“Now you’re an extra in Braveheart,” he said.
