about Damian’s slip, he could be fired. At the very least, put on probation and another Boot Knocker would take over with Ruthie.
A growl of possessiveness lifted in his throat.
Riggs gave Damian a nod, and relief trickled through him. He wouldn’t tell, and for that he was grateful. But he still couldn’t bring himself to feel remorse for the action. Nothing had ever felt so right.
Without a word Paul grabbed a bale and tossed it onto the stack. He looped his gloved fingers under the twine of another and heaved it with the same precision born from years of hard labor.
After three more, Damian cleared his throat. “You seem a might tense.”
Paul grunted as he threw another bale. “You could say that.”
“Need to talk?”
Paul shot him a look. His eyes were dark with anger or maybe frustration. “Never thought being friendly would mean more until I took this new job.”
Damian drew a lungful of the dusty air, gathering his thoughts. He could be way off base and reading more into his friend’s problems, but he didn’t think so. “Jack likes to flirt.”
Mid-motion, Paul stopped. Then he jerked his arm in a wild arc. The bale crashed against the wall, hay spilling from the binding. Breathing hard, Paul tugged his hat low over his eyes.
“Look, just tell him to back off.”
“I have.”
“And he hasn’t done it? That’s not right. You can go to Hugh—”
“No.” Paul’s voice brooked no argument. “For all Jack’s damn advances, he’s still one of my best friends.” He raised his gaze, the truth spoken there. He didn’t want to jeopardize that friendship. If he was anything like Damian, he valued each and every buddy he had. Plus, Paul must really respect and like Jack. If not, he wouldn’t have put up with his flirtations, friend or not.
“It’s up to you. Just draw your boundaries and let Jack deal with it. It’s in his pasture at that point.”
Paul twisted away and lifted another bale. “Will do. Thanks for the advice.”
As Damian passed Paul to leave the shed, he squeezed his friend’s shoulder. He wished like hell he had someone to confide in about his own struggles. He’d attempted to share with Riggs by telling him about the no-condom moment.
In the end, Damian kept his own counsel. Just as Paul wasn’t ready to rope Hugh into the trouble between him and Jack, Damian didn’t want his boss a country mile between him and Ruthie.
Chapter Eight
The moment Damian opened the door to Bungalow 11 he was presented with the prettiest picture he’d ever seen. Ruthie seated at the small table, sexy as hell in a midnight blue top and tan shorts, hair falling over her eyes.
As he closed the door, she looked up and gave him a grin that made his heart soar.
“Wanna play Scrabble?”
His heart plummeted. Pulse throbbing in his temples, he took in the game board already set up before her. Hell no, I don’t wanna play Scrabble. He’d said similar things to every teacher he’d ever had. But not Ruthie.
Any game dealing with words was a red-hot poker thrust through the chest of a man who couldn’t read.
He cringed inwardly but tried to remain calm on the surface. “I had other games in mind, doll.”
Her eyes glazed over. “But it’s raining. It’s a good inside activity.”
He doffed his hat and came forward slowly, making her squirm with every step. Good—he turned her on. He wasn’t pretending every letter on those tiles didn’t look like a hieroglyphic. He wasn’t pretending with Ruthie.
Light streamed in through a nearby window, illuminating her perfect skin. Today she’d used mascara and lip gloss. Her lashes were a mile long, her lips so kissable he couldn’t resist.
Swooping in, he crushed his lips over hers. The strawberry gloss scent filled his head. With a rumble of appreciation he swiped his tongue over her lower lip. She encircled his neck with her arms and melted into him.
Pressure built in his groin. He half-lifted her from her chair, swiped an arm
A growl of possessiveness lifted in his throat.
Riggs gave Damian a nod, and relief trickled through him. He wouldn’t tell, and for that he was grateful. But he still couldn’t bring himself to feel remorse for the action. Nothing had ever felt so right.
Without a word Paul grabbed a bale and tossed it onto the stack. He looped his gloved fingers under the twine of another and heaved it with the same precision born from years of hard labor.
After three more, Damian cleared his throat. “You seem a might tense.”
Paul grunted as he threw another bale. “You could say that.”
“Need to talk?”
Paul shot him a look. His eyes were dark with anger or maybe frustration. “Never thought being friendly would mean more until I took this new job.”
Damian drew a lungful of the dusty air, gathering his thoughts. He could be way off base and reading more into his friend’s problems, but he didn’t think so. “Jack likes to flirt.”
Mid-motion, Paul stopped. Then he jerked his arm in a wild arc. The bale crashed against the wall, hay spilling from the binding. Breathing hard, Paul tugged his hat low over his eyes.
“Look, just tell him to back off.”
“I have.”
“And he hasn’t done it? That’s not right. You can go to Hugh—”
“No.” Paul’s voice brooked no argument. “For all Jack’s damn advances, he’s still one of my best friends.” He raised his gaze, the truth spoken there. He didn’t want to jeopardize that friendship. If he was anything like Damian, he valued each and every buddy he had. Plus, Paul must really respect and like Jack. If not, he wouldn’t have put up with his flirtations, friend or not.
“It’s up to you. Just draw your boundaries and let Jack deal with it. It’s in his pasture at that point.”
Paul twisted away and lifted another bale. “Will do. Thanks for the advice.”
As Damian passed Paul to leave the shed, he squeezed his friend’s shoulder. He wished like hell he had someone to confide in about his own struggles. He’d attempted to share with Riggs by telling him about the no-condom moment.
In the end, Damian kept his own counsel. Just as Paul wasn’t ready to rope Hugh into the trouble between him and Jack, Damian didn’t want his boss a country mile between him and Ruthie.
Chapter Eight
The moment Damian opened the door to Bungalow 11 he was presented with the prettiest picture he’d ever seen. Ruthie seated at the small table, sexy as hell in a midnight blue top and tan shorts, hair falling over her eyes.
As he closed the door, she looked up and gave him a grin that made his heart soar.
“Wanna play Scrabble?”
His heart plummeted. Pulse throbbing in his temples, he took in the game board already set up before her. Hell no, I don’t wanna play Scrabble. He’d said similar things to every teacher he’d ever had. But not Ruthie.
Any game dealing with words was a red-hot poker thrust through the chest of a man who couldn’t read.
He cringed inwardly but tried to remain calm on the surface. “I had other games in mind, doll.”
Her eyes glazed over. “But it’s raining. It’s a good inside activity.”
He doffed his hat and came forward slowly, making her squirm with every step. Good—he turned her on. He wasn’t pretending every letter on those tiles didn’t look like a hieroglyphic. He wasn’t pretending with Ruthie.
Light streamed in through a nearby window, illuminating her perfect skin. Today she’d used mascara and lip gloss. Her lashes were a mile long, her lips so kissable he couldn’t resist.
Swooping in, he crushed his lips over hers. The strawberry gloss scent filled his head. With a rumble of appreciation he swiped his tongue over her lower lip. She encircled his neck with her arms and melted into him.
Pressure built in his groin. He half-lifted her from her chair, swiped an arm
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