Jesus.
Tanya’s gaze flicked between us, assessing. The woman had been my neighbor for years, having bought her house on our quiet street not long after she’d taken over Granny’s from my family. She’d become like a second mother to me, looking after me, making sure I was safe and taken care of when my own mom was several miles away on the other end of the peninsula. Outside of my family, she knew me best, and I could practically see the wheels in her mind spinning. Questioning. Wondering why I was on a date with a guy I’d never once expressed any interest in during all the years we’d known each other.
Truthfully, I’d asked myself that same series of questions several times over the last twenty-four hours.
But TJ was a nice guy, and nice guys were few and far between. I was willing to give him a shot. If it worked out, lucky me. If it didn’t, at least I could say I tried.
“That’s great!” Tanya said, though her eyes lingered on me as though asking if it were, in fact, great. I gave her a tight, close-lipped smile. With a near imperceptible incline of her head, indicating she understood, she moved on. “What can I get you guys to drink?”
“I’ll just have water,” TJ said. “What about you, Delia?”
I studied him. “You’re not going to have a beer or something?”
“Oh, I don’t drink,” TJ said. “Never really saw the point.”
“I—” I let whatever I had planned to say die in my throat. I didn’t have anything against people who didn’t drink. That wasn’t my choice to make for them. But…a large part of my life revolved around alcohol and the consumption of it. Having grown up in the area, that was something TJ knew. Five minutes into this date, and the contrasts in our lifestyles were glaringly obvious.
It had me wondering why he’d asked me out in the first place—and why I’d agreed.
It was finally timeto admit it: despite my apprehension to work with her, Delia Delatou was damn good at her job.
Truthfully, it didn’t shock me, not in any way that mattered, at least. It was only surprising in the way that, for someone like me who was too old school to really lean into the social media craze and use it to expand my reach—something I’d never needed to do anyway; my name, face, and status did that for me—the numbers from that first month were staggering.
Since curiosity killed the cat and all, I couldn’t help checking our accounts daily. Delia had given me our login info with specific instructions not to touch anything. I didn’t open any DMs, respond to any comments, follow or unfollow anyone. I simply…looked. Hovered in the digital background. Watched the videos she posted, read the carefully typed out captions and perfectly staged and filtered photos. It was…impressive.
Somehow, she’d found a way to make it all feel personal, like aconversation between friends, without ever giving our followers anything beyond the most surface level details. Our own faces never appeared in anything after those initial shots taken the day we broke ground. Delia focused a lot on the crew, having one guy explain the process of pouring the foundation, or another walk viewers through raising the walls and installing the trusses. She’d also conducted a few interviews with Jay, who provided progress reports and shared his confidence that we’d be open for business before Christmas.
Those words were music to my ears.
Secretly, I loved watching her work, took pleasure in the way she flitted around the job site, phone and camera permanently attached to her hands. She was so confident in everything she did, from the way she lined up a shot to the way she interacted with the construction guys.
Things were running smoothly, and I’d even pitched in to help the guys on a few occasions.
One day, at seeing me getting my hands dirty, Delia decided she also wanted to contribute.
“I want to try!” she shouted when I descended the ladder after pounding a few nails in. I could’ve done it with the nail gun, but there was nothing quite so cathartic as each strike of the hammer against the nail head.
I knew better than to judge a book by its cover, but Delia looked like she could barely lift the hammer, much less swing it and drive a nail into an oak board.
Still, the construction guys had been all for it, whistling and cheering her on. I wasn’t at all on board, terrified she’d hurt herself somehow, so I hovered nearby as she climbed up the ladder. I stood slightly off to the side, chuckling softly when hertongue slipped out from between her lips as she concentrated. Her eyes narrowed on the nail she’d pinched between the thumb and pointer of her left hand. Then she lifted the hammer and swung.
The nail tacked into the board, and Delia grinned down at me. “I did it!”
“You sure did, Whiskey,” I said. “Now finish it.”
She did as I told her, careful swings slowly driving the nail deeper.
Having gotten bored with the whole production, like watching paint dry, I couldn’t help my gaze straying to something far more interesting—her ass.
She wore a pair of obscene faux-leather pants that molded to every fucking sinful curve of her lower body, from the perfect swell of her backside to the lines of her quads, tapering to trim calves and delicate ankles.
Everything about this woman was a goddamn wet dream, and my eyes glazed over as I imagined what it’d be like to peel her clothes away, to have her naked and willing beneath me, to make her come apart over and over again.
Which is how I almost missed it when she accidentally pounded the hammer into her fingers, let go of the ladder in favor of cradling her hand, and slipped backward.
Only muscle memory from years of football had my feet moving, my arms reaching out to cradle her body against mine before she hit the ground. She landed with a soft sigh, eyes wide as she stared up at me.
“Nice catch, QB.”
