thoughts. Heat seeped into her face and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it.
“No problem,” she muttered, and strode into the house, but after a few restless minutes puttering around in the kitchen, she gave up trying to distract herself and wandered back out to the porch. This time she made herself useful, running to the breaker box in the little utility room just inside her back door, and turning off the power to the porch light at his signal. Then she was back, sharing the step-stool with him, trying to ignore the heat coming off his body as she held the flashlight so he could see what he was doing.
He smelled like soap, and rain, and testosterone. His jaw flexed as he screwed the base of the camera to the wooden slats of her porch ceiling. A stray drop of water ran down his neck and disappeared under the collar of his shirt. Her tongue itched to follow the wet trail.
“Okay,” he said softly, and for a moment she thought he was giving her permission to run her tongue over his skin, but then he lowered his arms and added, “want to go flip the switch?”
Oh yeah. That. “Absolutely. Sure.” She handed him the flashlight and practically jumped off the stool. “Be right back.”
She hustled to the breaker box and threw the switch, then inched down the hall far enough to confirm the light flickered on. From the porch she heard him utter something that sounded like, “Lightning knows his shit,” which she took to mean the camera worked. She stopped in the kitchen to pour a glass of water, briefly considered throwing it over her head to cool herself down, but settled for a deep drink before she returned to the porch.
He stood there bathed in porch light, with his head tipped down and his eyes closed, absently rubbing the back of his neck. God, he looked…weary. Just like the night she’d dragged him into her salon and watched his eyelids grow heavy as she chatted his ear off and trimmed his hair. A bunch of stupid and highly misplaced protective instincts rose up and took control of her mouth.
She ran a hand down his back, feeling his body heat through the drenched T-shirt. “Have you had dinner?”
He straightened and looked at her. “I planned to pick up something from Boone’s on the way home.”
“Change your plan. I’ll make dinner.”
Now he started gathering up his tools. “I don’t want to track up your house. I’m all dirty and wet.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to say, “Me, too,” but she swallowed the wayward retort. “Not a problem. Leave your shoes by the door and you won’t track up my house. You can shower while I get dinner ready, and I’ll toss your clothes in the dryer.”
“I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”
“Tell you what, I’ll save the coq au vin for another night, but I have this funny habit of eating every evening, and I can just as easily boil up a whole box of pasta as half.”
The sarcasm earned her a smile. He closed the lid on his toolbox. “Well, when you put it like that…”
“I put it exactly like that.” She waited while he unlaced his boots, slipped them off and left them neatly paired up by her door. Her shoes looked ridiculously small and delicate—and strangely intimate—resting beside his.
But it wasn’t until he stepped into her entryway that she fully appreciated the meaning of the word intimate. He took up all room in the narrow space. The soft, sage green paint she’d painstakingly layered onto thick plaster walls seemed to nudge them together and the original etched glass fixture gracing the entryway dappled them in soft light. The steady pitter-patter of rain on the roof insulated her ears from mundane noises like the tick of her grandma’s mantle clock in the living room, or the hum of the refrigerator kicking on in the kitchen.
Dirty, wet, and tired , she reminded herself, and led him down the hall to the one and only bathroom, stopping at the built-in linen closet to dig out another towel. She
“No problem,” she muttered, and strode into the house, but after a few restless minutes puttering around in the kitchen, she gave up trying to distract herself and wandered back out to the porch. This time she made herself useful, running to the breaker box in the little utility room just inside her back door, and turning off the power to the porch light at his signal. Then she was back, sharing the step-stool with him, trying to ignore the heat coming off his body as she held the flashlight so he could see what he was doing.
He smelled like soap, and rain, and testosterone. His jaw flexed as he screwed the base of the camera to the wooden slats of her porch ceiling. A stray drop of water ran down his neck and disappeared under the collar of his shirt. Her tongue itched to follow the wet trail.
“Okay,” he said softly, and for a moment she thought he was giving her permission to run her tongue over his skin, but then he lowered his arms and added, “want to go flip the switch?”
Oh yeah. That. “Absolutely. Sure.” She handed him the flashlight and practically jumped off the stool. “Be right back.”
She hustled to the breaker box and threw the switch, then inched down the hall far enough to confirm the light flickered on. From the porch she heard him utter something that sounded like, “Lightning knows his shit,” which she took to mean the camera worked. She stopped in the kitchen to pour a glass of water, briefly considered throwing it over her head to cool herself down, but settled for a deep drink before she returned to the porch.
He stood there bathed in porch light, with his head tipped down and his eyes closed, absently rubbing the back of his neck. God, he looked…weary. Just like the night she’d dragged him into her salon and watched his eyelids grow heavy as she chatted his ear off and trimmed his hair. A bunch of stupid and highly misplaced protective instincts rose up and took control of her mouth.
She ran a hand down his back, feeling his body heat through the drenched T-shirt. “Have you had dinner?”
He straightened and looked at her. “I planned to pick up something from Boone’s on the way home.”
“Change your plan. I’ll make dinner.”
Now he started gathering up his tools. “I don’t want to track up your house. I’m all dirty and wet.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to say, “Me, too,” but she swallowed the wayward retort. “Not a problem. Leave your shoes by the door and you won’t track up my house. You can shower while I get dinner ready, and I’ll toss your clothes in the dryer.”
“I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”
“Tell you what, I’ll save the coq au vin for another night, but I have this funny habit of eating every evening, and I can just as easily boil up a whole box of pasta as half.”
The sarcasm earned her a smile. He closed the lid on his toolbox. “Well, when you put it like that…”
“I put it exactly like that.” She waited while he unlaced his boots, slipped them off and left them neatly paired up by her door. Her shoes looked ridiculously small and delicate—and strangely intimate—resting beside his.
But it wasn’t until he stepped into her entryway that she fully appreciated the meaning of the word intimate. He took up all room in the narrow space. The soft, sage green paint she’d painstakingly layered onto thick plaster walls seemed to nudge them together and the original etched glass fixture gracing the entryway dappled them in soft light. The steady pitter-patter of rain on the roof insulated her ears from mundane noises like the tick of her grandma’s mantle clock in the living room, or the hum of the refrigerator kicking on in the kitchen.
Dirty, wet, and tired , she reminded herself, and led him down the hall to the one and only bathroom, stopping at the built-in linen closet to dig out another towel. She
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