Evan doesn’t look at me as he says, “For Leo.” He then stands, points to the pencil markings I’d made on the wall to make sure he’s putting the shelf in the right place, and holds it still.
“So, like Leo the lion?”
“Yeah. He drew it. Do you want to screw?”
My face grows rosy, and my grip on the screwdriver goes limp. “What?”
Evan’s head cocks, and his eyebrows pull together. “You’re holding the screwdriver. Do you want to screw it into the wall or should I?”
Filling my lungs with air, I mentally scold myself for how I interpreted his words. “Right, uh, yeah, I’ll do it.”
God, I hope I’m not flushed. All I want to do is laugh out loud at myself for how there was a split second there where I thought Evan was offering something he most definitely never would. I’m pretty sure this man would rather hammer one of these nails into the side of his skull than that.
After screwing my side of the shelf into the wall, Evan takes the tool from me and does the same with his side, and we both step back and admire our work.
“There,” he says, dusting his hands off.
“Thanks for the help. I’m sure I would have figured it out eventually, though. Maybe.” I’m smiling as I speak, unconvinced by my own words. I may be great with a needle and thread, but put a hammer into my palm, and I’m going to look at you like you’re speaking in a different language.
“Sure looked like it.” Evan drags his white teeth along his bottom lip, eyes stuck on me for a few moments longer than I’m pretty sure he wanted them to be, since he scowls and drops his gaze.
My arms fold tightly across my chest when I say, “Have you always been handy?”
“I’m a single dad. I have to be.”
“Well, I suppose football players need to be good with their hands, don’t they?” A snort escapes me, and Evan instinctively flexes his fingers.
“You can’t be a tight end without being good with your hands.”
“I beg your pardon?” I slap my hand over my mouth.
Evan looks confused as he replies, “My position in football. I’m a tight end.”
Okay, I don’t know much about football, but who the hell decided to name that position? Andwhowas it named after? It’s got to be someone, right?
I want to tell him he fits the criteria to be a tight end because I’ve never seen a man with a perkier ass—this man’s jeans definitely work overtime—but I know that would be crossing the line, so instead, I settle for, “I mean, I wasn’t going to say anything about your tight end, but now that you’ve brought it up…”
That’s probably not much better, though, to be honest. But my tone is humorous.
I’m still sniggering, and to my surprise, Evan joins in, slightly, shaking his head before massaging the spot between his eyes. “On that note, I’m leaving.”
“Why’d you come over here in the first place, West?” I question, leaning up against the door frame with my arms crossed as Evan walks down the porch steps.
“I heard you yelling at the hammer.”
That makes me offer him an awkward grin. “Hmm, I swear, the hammer started it.”
“Whatever you say, Florence.”
9: Evan
“One chocolate chip pancake in the shape of a dinosaur for you, sir.” Flo uses the spatula to ease her creation onto Leo’s plate, and even though we all know it definitely doesn’t look like a dinosaur—more like a giraffe with wings—his eyes shine with gratitude anyway.
“And for you.” She spins around, angling the frying pan towards me, pushing a plate in my direction.
“I don’t need one. I’m leaving for practice in a minute. Thanks.”
“Well, you can’t just survive on coffee for the rest of your life, can you?” With a smirk, she dumps my pancake on the plate, and my eyes widen into the size of saucers once I see the shape she’s formed my breakfast into.
