"Then Barrons had arrived and I'd wasted no time putting him to work.
A muscle leapt in his jaw. "Tell me again why I'm doing this, Ms. Lane?"
"Duh," I said. "Because my arm's broken." I waved my splint at him, in case he'd forgotten.
"I don't think you tried hard enough," he said. "I think you need to try again. I think if you angle your splint out like this"—he demonstrated, in the process tipping fingernail polish onto the tiled patio—"then twist your arm around like this." He nodded. "Give it a try. I think it'll work."
I gave him a cool look. "You drag me all over the place, making me hunt for OOPs, but do I complain the whole time? No. Suck it up, Barrons. The least you can do is paint my nails while my arm's broken.
* Imagining JZB painting Mac's fingernails is so funny.
Imagining him painting her toenails is hilarious...
It's not like I'm asking you to do both hands. And I'm not asking you to do my toes at all." Although I really could have used some help with my pedicure. A proper foot grooming was a two-handed job.
He glowered at the prospect of having to gloss my toes a matching shimmery, gold-frosted Ice Princess Blush, which, by the way, had always seemed oxymoronish to me, like jumbo shrimp. None of the ice princesses I'd known in high school and college had been the blushing types.
"Some guys," I informed him softly, "would jump at the chance to paint my toenails."
Barrons bent his head over my hand, applying pale pink polish to my ring finger with exacting care. He looked big and muscular and male and silly painting my fingernails, like a Roman centurion decked out in a frilly chef's apron. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
"I'm sure they would, Ms. Lane," he said dryly.
He was still calling me Ms. Lane. After all we'd been through. As if he'd not found my map with the pink dot I'd stabbed on it, followed me into the Dark Zone, rescued, splinted, iced, bandaged, and, I think, even kissed me."
~Karen Marie Moning, Darkfever