Brendon by Nicole Edwards Page A

outside. Her less-than-fashionable selection hadn’t been due to the mild May temperature, but rather to keep some of the stain off her skin.
    Buying a house and working on it were two very different things, Cheyenne had come to see. Cleaning didn’t prove to be much of an issue; however, handiwork really wasn’t her thing. Not that she wasn’t having a good time giving it a whirl. But, as with most things that required a steady hand, she’d learned in recent days that she wasn’t the tidiest person when it came to getting her assortment of dining room chairs back to their original glory. Her shirt now reflected the proof of that statement with the dark brown splotches scattered along the arms and down the front.
    “You want somethin’ to drink?” Cheyenne offered Brendon as she pushed to her feet, stretching her sore back muscles.
    He was in the process of sanding the last chair. His brilliant idea to grab his power sander had helped them move the project along quite nicely and she had managed to get at least one coat of stain on each of the chairs as he completed sanding them.
    “Sure,” he answered, turning off the sander and setting it on a makeshift table he’d set up.
    The guy was pretty damned handy to have around, there was no doubt about that.
    “Lemonade? Tea? What’s your poison?” she asked as she pulled off her work gloves and headed for the door.
    “Whatever’s easiest,” he answered, his gaze trailing down her legs.
    Throughout the afternoon, Cheyenne had noticed his attention had continuously strayed to her. How could she not notice? The way his eyes smoldered when he took in the sight of her was some pretty powerful stuff. Granted, she’d been doing the same to him, ogling the way his back muscles flexed and bunched as he worked, admiring the way his tight ass looked in those dark blue jeans. Yep, working in these conditions hadn’t been a hardship at all.
    “I’ll be right back,” she told him.
    Cheyenne disappeared inside and made quick work of preparing their drinks. When she returned to the porch, she found Brendon—ball cap on backward—in the yard with Scrap. He’d found a stick and was tossing it for the sweet little dog who would retrieve it, scamper back, and leave it at Brendon’s feet, yapping until Brendon threw it again.
    A weird sensation filled Cheyenne’s chest as she watched the two of them.
    The scene wasn’t unusual, just a man playing with his dog, but it was so domestic, so natural, Cheyenne felt a flicker of longing ignite in her chest. She wanted this. This feeling of family, of normalcy. It wasn’t something she’d ever had. Her parents had never been big on making a home, or even being parents, for that matter. Which was why Cheyenne had lived with her grandparents most of her life.
    “What’re you thinkin’ about?”
    Cheyenne broke herself from her thoughts to see that Brendon was standing on the steps in front of her. Even with him two steps down, she still wasn’t as tall as he was. Smiling, she handed over his iced tea and took a sip of her own.
    “It’s nothin’,” she muttered as she watched Scrap sniff around the porch. She had no desire to freak Brendon out by telling him where her thoughts had drifted to.
    “It didn’t look like nothin’,” he told her. “Sit.”
    When he pointed to the porch, Cheyenne moved down one step and then lowered herself to the wood floor. He joined her, sitting one step below.
    “Now, let’s try again. What were you thinkin’ about?”
    Cheyenne peered over at him. He wasn’t looking at her but was instead staring out at the acres of grass spread before them, and maybe that was the reason she felt a little stronger about sharing her thoughts. “I was thinkin’ how I’d never had this before. It’s kinda nice just sittin’ at home, doin’ mundane things.”
    “By this , I take it you aren’t referrin’ to the house and the yard.”
    “No. When I lived with my grandparents, we had