Page 92 of Bridesmaid Undercover
I ponder it for a second, but then thinkwho the hell cares? It’s not like anything can get more embarrassing than him shooting a bowling ball into the roof. He’s set the standard, and I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to reach that.
“Okay, one move, but after this display of choreographed perfection, we need to get to work on these pom-poms.”
A handsome smile passes over his lips. “Deal.”
I stand from my chair and move toward a more open space.
His eyes fall to my slippers and then back up to my face. “I like the footwear.”
“You try wearing heels on concrete all day, unbelievably uncomfortable.” I clear my throat and then get in position, with my hands above my head. “Are you ready?”
“I’ve never been more ready in my life.” He faces me and folds his arms over his large chest, his gaze intent on me.
“Five, six, seven, eight,” I say right before I sweep one arm down and back up, then the other arm. Then I twirl and salsa my leg forward, then the other, twirl, and then jazz hands.
The smile that remains on Hardy’s face is easily the most attractive sight I’ve ever seen. I’m pretty sure I’d happily perform my dance all night if it means that smile stays.
He claps his hands, chuckling. “Wow, those are some moves.”
I take a seat and nonchalantly say, “Told you, choregraphed perfection.”
“Emmy-worthy.”
“I know,” I say with a smirk, which causes him to laugh. “Now, you owe me some pom-poms.”
“A deal is a deal.” He looks over the supplies on the table. “What the hell do you want me to do with this?” He lifts up the pom-pom maker, and it flops around in his hand.
“That’s the pom-pom maker. You take yarn, weave it around, cut, and then tie. It forms the pom-pom that we will glue on a stick for the centerpieces. I also need some for the garland. I have a whole bin full and was going to string them together with this.” I hold up a very large sewing needle.
“Jesus,” he says. “That looks like it came from a medieval torture chamber.”
“If you’re not a good helper, then you’re going to experience the kind of torture it could provide.” I playfully jab it in his direction, and he lifts his hands in defense.
“Hell, I don’t want that. I’ll be good, I promise, Mistress Plum.”
I let out a laugh. “Such a good subservient.”
With a smirk gracing his lips, he says, “Maybe I can string the pom-poms. That seems like an easy job that I can’t fuck up. Making them scares me.”
“It’s easy to make them, but if you’re more comfortable stringing, you can do that too.”
“Thanks,” he says as I hand him the needle. “Christ, look at this thing! It could have come in handy today.”
“Oh? Looking to jab people?”
“One person in particular.”
“Yeah?” I ask as I set up the bin of completed pom-poms in front of him. I also help him string the needle before he gets started. “Want to talk about it?”
“Not really,” he answers as I show him how to string the first pom-pom, jabbing the needle and pulling the string through. “But fuck, I feel like if I don’t get it off my chest, I’m going to be miserable company.”
“You’ve been pretty enjoyable so far,” I say.
His eyes flash to mine. “It’s the Whitney Houston that’s masking my shit attitude.”
“She did wonders with her voice—I think we both know that.”
“True,” he says and then sighs. He sticks the needle through a pom-pom and asks, “I assume this conversation will stay between us? I wouldn’t want it getting to Maple or anything.”
