“I was, um, picturing you, uh, kneeling in front of me?—”
“—sucking your cock,” she finished breathlessly, her face growing even redder. “I’d be completely down for that, just so you know.”
She licked her lips.
Oh, hell yes.
“Well, then,” he choked out loud. “I guess we’re going to have to make sure this job gets wrapped up quickly.”
“Very quickly,” she breathed out, tentatively yet impishly reaching for his dick.
“Nope,” he squeaked, catching her fingers before they reached their target. “You dothat, and we’ll never make it to the shop.”
Lace giggled, but gave in.
Ten minutes later, with lots of heated glances being exchanged between the two of them, they pulled up in front of Diver Downeast.
“Rotting lobster carapaces. Rotting lobster carapaces,” Vince began chanting, just loudly enough to amuse Lace.
“Don’t tell me,” she snickered. “You’re trying to distract your happy man-parts with something disgusting.”
“Yup. Give me a second. It’s working.” He squinched up his face.
Lace glanced as his lap again.
“Stop looking,” Vince griped. “Argh.”
Itwasn’tworking.
Lace cleared her throat and began to sing.
“Great big gobs of ooey gooey gopher guts…”
That did the trick.
Not because it was disgusting, but because Vince had always found that children’s song to be hilarious. It was just the distraction he needed.
His new problem?
He’d be singing that damned ditty in his head for the rest of the day.
Getting out of the truck, then going around to help Lace down, Vince couldn’t help but smile to himself over how relaxed she’d been all day. He felt like he was getting a glimpse of who Lace was before, and who she’d be after her aggressive cancer treatments. Not that he didn’t love all sides of Lace, but seeing her happy?
Yeah. He was going to make that his life’s mission.
They walked into the glass-fronted store, and Sheila, behind the front desk, stood up abruptly, slapping a snorkel and a mask onto the counter before Vince could even introduce her to Lace.
“What are those for?” Vince asked. He had hisdivinggear in his truck.
Sheila bent down, struggling to pick up a stack of large white buckets, which she also placed, front and center.
“Golf course,” Sheila intoned, as if that would explain everything.
“Excuse me?” Vince couldn’t, for the life of him, think of any job that would necessitate?—
Oh, hell no.
“Fucking Spence,” Vince barked.