The man swivels to my right side, and Connor leans against the wall to my left in all his shirtless glory- close enough that he can get to me in no time at all should I need him for any reason. Not that the man has done anything besides act professional and kind.
He glances up to Connor as he snaps on a pair of gloves and begins cleaning my skin. “That’s some sick bruising dude,” he comments casually, a silent inquiry.
The corners of Connor's lips twitch as he slides his hands into his pockets. “Tell me about it. My girl here can get a little carried away sometimes.”
My eyes widen at him, but he doesn’t even look at me. He just watches the guy's hands as they work, taking in every movement. The artist gives me a once-over, stunned disbelief written all over his face.
He nods approvingly, his face twisted to mirror his nod. “I guess it’s true when they say you can’t judge a book or something like that.”
“She may be small but-”