“Your turn,” he says simply, like I’m not fighting every cell in my body to not fling myself over this table and into his capable hands. The seam of my jean shorts is pressing in just the right spot that I can feel the pulse of my clit against the rigid fabric.

I stare at the Scrabble tiles, unable to form anything in front of me into a word.

“I’m sorry to interrupt.” Lucy appears in the doorway and I have the urge to run over and hug her.

“Nothing to be sorry about. Come on in. How’s it going? Want to play Scrabble?” Should I invite her to sleep over, too? We’ll have movie night and share popcorn. Lucy will sit in the middle to chaperone. Sounds like a fun time.

I can feel Barrett’s eyes on me. I may have the higher point total but he’s the real winner here. Make Chloe Squirm was a success.

“No, thank you.” She has the decency to respond to my gibberish. “The rain has stopped and I’ve arranged a wine tasting at a vineyard nearby.”

Lucy’s right. A glance out the windows confirms the rain has stopped and the sun is peeking out from behind the clouds. Again, the activities inside the house have distracted me from paying attention to anything else.

“They’ll have antipasto and charcuterie, and an assortment of snacks. You’ll be able to watch the fireworks there as well.”

“Sounds great,” I say enthusiastically. Surely Make Chloe Squirm can’t be a public game. I wonder if there are any concerts or largely populated festivals we could attend.

“The driver will pick you up in thirty minutes,” Lucy tells us.

“Go ahead and change. I’ll put the game away.” Barrett doesn’t have to tell me twice. I practically run for the stairs, enjoying the cool breeze that my quick pace generates. Holy hell it was hot in that room.

I grab some clothes and use the bathroom to change and freshen up my face. Ten minutes later, I exit the bathroom to find Barrett shirtless and mid-zip on a pair of snug fitting white pants.

“Sorry. I didn’t realize you were changing in here.”

Barrett smirks. “I’m in a far less compromising position than this morning, aren’t I?”

“Right,” I reply, while suppressing the urge to fan myself. I don’t want to talk about this morning. I’d prefer to bury that conversation with Jimmy Hoffa’s body.

I try to avert my eyes, but let’s be honest, why should I?

I already discovered Barrett has those Vs of muscle on his sides this morning in the shower. Somehow, they look even more lickable with a pair of pants on. And those pants? Lord have mercy.