I hand him the tool, beaming with pride. His eyes drop, check the offering. “Good job. Fast learner.”
“Thank you. You’re not bad yourself. You’ve got serious grumpy handyman influencer potential.”
He growls, like a warning, but his neck reddens traveling up his face. I notice a bead of sweat rolling down his cheek. Lucky little drop. Wonder if his beard is rough or soft?
The work continues. Gruff commands for pipe, epoxy putty, various other tools. All I can think about is trailing my fingers through his hair.
Why does hard work beside him feel more intimate than any date I’ve ever been on?
Suddenly, Denver pushes back out from under the sink, straightens. “Good news or bad news first?” he asks with an ambivalent grin.
“Good.”
“Kitchen sink’s fixed. Now, only the rest of the house to go.”
I whoop before thinking, wrap my arms around him for a hug. He freezes in my embrace, arms still at his sides, fisting tools. A wrench clunks to the ground. His arm comes up, and he awkwardly pats me.
I step back, “sorry” on my lips like a whisper, even as my eyes find his mouth. His head tilts towards me, face warm and more open than I’ve seen it since my arrival.
Bark! Bark!Bear’s call rises like a cheering crowd, breaking the tension and the moment. My breath catches in my throat, and the big man straightens. Then, I burst into giggles, not sure what’s so funny.
Denver joins in, genuine, full-bodied, easy. I haven’t laughed like this since Maya’s death. It feels like the beginning of something new, an opening chapter even as bittersweetness lingers. I wish she could be here, sharing in these experiences with me.
“We keep this momentum up, and I really will have a little cabin all my own in the woods,” I say, dabbing at my eyes as I finally get a handle on the laughter. I look at the big redhead and find a mixture of joy and sadness in his gaze. I feel it, too. “Thank you, Denver. I could never have done this without you.”
“Yes, you could have. But it’s only just a start.”
“A start’s a start,” I reply, pleased with today’s progress. But a new ache tugs at me that I can’t describe.
“Head back for lunch?” he asks.
It’s too soon. If we work this slowly, the cabin will never be done. Maybe that’s the point. “Lunch sounds wonderful.”
He nods, face stone.
Back at the cabin, Denver wipes his forehead with the back of his arm, hair falling loose from its tie. The sun catches the copper in it, wild and beautiful in a way that makes my throat tighten.
“What?” he asks, catching me looking.
“You could use a trim,” I blurt, instantly wishing I hadn’t.
One corner of his mouth twitches. “That so?”
“Purely practical,” I start, but he interrupts the thought, sauntering away.
He grunts, disappears inside the cabin, and for a second, I think I’ve embarrassed him. Then he re-emerges, shirtless, a pair of scissors in hand.
I stop, frozen. Jaw dropping and eyes descending, tracing every angle, firm ridge, and tempting valley. Slashed across the sculpted frame are thick, angry scars. His free hand raises, shielding me from them. But my eyes are elsewhere, lost in the teasing strip of red hair below his washboard abs and belly button that descends into the waistband of his jeans.
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Figure you gals like your men looking a certain way.” He shrugs, casual, but the pink climbing his neck gives him away.
My mouth goes dry. “I—uh—sure, I can try. Don’t sue me if you end up lopsided.”
He sits on the porch step, head tilted slightly forward. I kneel behind him, fingers trembling as I thread through his thick hair. It’s softer than I expected, smells like pine smoke and cedar soap.
“Shorter on the sides?” I ask.
