I chance a sweep of my fingers over his high cheekbones. “Highlighter, huh? Is that what makes your face so pretty?”
Seriously, the tips of his ears could start a forest fire at this point.
“Yes,” he says, very serious, with his hands on his hips. “And I think we should get to working on Mr. Bridge’s roof before he comes over and kicks us out.”
I can’t help the predatory smile. “You got it, Mr. Highlighter.”
With that, we grab a few more boxes of lights, and I hold the ladder while Tanner crawls up to the roof. That’s a serious tactical error on my part because his ass from this angle is mouthwatering. My hands twitch with the desire to take him in a two-handed grip andsqueeze. I bet his hole is so fucking pretty and pink and…
Not helpful.
A few minutes later, Mr. Bridge comes limping out onto the driveway with a snarl on his lips. “What are y’all doin’ on my roof makin’ all that noise?”
We freeze and grimace at each other.
“Just making it a bit more festive, Mr. Bridge,” Tanner calls out.
Mr. Annoyed and Crotchety grunts then goes back inside.
We exchange a look.
“Sounds like permission to me,” I say, stifling a laugh.
“Agreed,” he says, reaching out for another length of lights.
By the time we leave, Mr. Bridge’s roof is candy-cane striped, and we even manage a lighted garland around his garage. I decide that his gruff, “Are you done yet?” is how he shows his gratitude.
As we make our way to Mrs. Abrams’ house, Tanner’s sweet and dark scent fills the cab of my truck. I have to white-knuckle the steering wheel to keep myself from dragging him onto my lap to demand he tell me what he’s wearing.
I wonder how much he’d like that.
5
TANNER
Our third place is only one street over, and Mrs. Abrams is a damn sight friendlier than Mr. Bridge, especially when we offer to help with yard work. This time I mow and Junior edges, and that goes a lot better.
Still, Junior’s gone quiet, and I’m not sure how to read it. It felt like we had anothermomentin Mr. Bridge’s garage. More than a moment, really. He was an iron wall, and I was a helpless magnet.
Aaaand here we go, being dumb again.
I’m not as focused as I should be rolling the mower into the garage, and I knock into some unstable shelving. An enormous pair of pruning shears fall tip-first, and I cringe, unable to avoid them. Thankfully, the shears glance off my steel-toed boots.
“Holy shit,” Junior shouts, coming up fast behind me. “You okay?”
There it is again—thatpull.
I plaster on a grin. “Guess I’m lucky these boots were goth enough for me.”
Junior puts his hand on his chest. “I’m so glad they were. I would’ve hated for you to get hurt.”
I snort, and he draws back, offended. “What’s so funny about that?”
I hold up my hands. “Oh, I’m not laughing at you. I just remember the time I was grounded for needing stitches while the Cowboys were playing. Yet here you are, all worried about a clueless goth kitten.”
Junior’s face goes about as red as his hat, which is askew and littered with grass clippings and fake garland remnants.
“Yeah, I overheard you.” I push his shoulder so he knows I don’t take offense.
