He slides it in with a grunt and a “Good luck with that,” before tipping his cap and heading off.
I stare at the box. It’s long. Awkward. Heavy-looking. And it needs to go upstairs.
I try.
Ireallytry.
But halfway up the steps, it catches on the railing, jerks out of my grip, and nearly takes me down with it.
“Shit,” I mutter, breathless, bracing it against the wall.
And then I hear it.
Footsteps.
Boots.
I turn, heart stalling.
Will’s standing at the bottom of the stairs, hands in the pockets of his jeans, gaze flicking from the box to me.
“I take it you’re too proud to ask for help,” he says, voice dry, steady.
I scowl. “I ask for help when I need it.”
He walks up a few steps, stopping just below me. His presence fills the stairwell. Fills me.
“Need a hand?” Amusement and something darker dances in his eyes.
My mouth opens and then closes. Because I do need a hand. Just not in the way he means.
I step back, and that’s all the answer he needs.
Will grips the box, muscles flexing beneath his T-shirt as he hoists it up the stairs like it weighs nothing. I follow, trying not to stare. Trying not to remember what I did last night.
When we reach the top, he sets it down just inside my apartment, straightens, and looks at me.
His eyes are darker than they were this morning.
“Curtain’s still open,” he says softly, gaze flicking toward the living room window. “That’s a bad habit, sugar.”
My breath catches.
“Like I said. I wanted an audience,” I say, voice barely above a whisper.
Silence stretches between us, heavy and charged.
And then?—
“You gonna invite me in?”
I shake my head, pulse thudding. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
Will’s brow lifts. “You’re going to need help building this.”
And then it hits me. He’s not asking to come in to ravish me. He’s asking to come in to build the damn couch. My face flushes hot, like my body got the wrong memo.
“Right this way,” I mumble, stepping aside.
