Smooth Moves. Carrie Alexander
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too, and his warm brown irises were glinting at her again, sharing the joke, asking her to laugh. She was utterly charmed, but she couldn’t quite manage a laugh. There was too much of him. Too much tall, handsome, strong, healthy male.
She had to say something. The group had coached her on how to engage him in conversation, but they hadn’t foreseen a renegade water hose. It seemed prudent to jump straight to the invitation. “Umm, since you’re so wet anyway, want to help me wash my car? You look like you’d be good at rubbing bumpers and…” Heavens, this was embarrassing! “…p-polishing headlights.”
Surprise flashed across his face. His gaze dropped to her wet T-shirt, then quickly back up to her face. “Sure,” he said, somewhat quizzically. “I’d be glad to rub your bumper.”
Cathy’s next line was supposed to be even more suggestive, but darned if she’d say it. There was no way on earth she’d seduce him sounding like a bad Mae West imitation. Instead she pointed at the front bumper. “Be my guest.”
He kicked off his shoes and threw them into his own yard with a natural athletic grace, the muscles in his shoulders flexing beneath the clinging shirt. She blinked, realizing that wet T-shirts worked on both sexes.
“They were squidgy,” he explained, intercepting her stare.
He’s not squidgy.
“The shoes?” she blurted. “Sorry.”
“They’ll dry.” He grinned again, making her brain swim, every rational thought slipping out of her grasp like an elusive goldfish. She was not worthy. Heck, she wasn’t even capable.
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