My brain short-circuits for a second, because he looks unfairly good for someone who apparently dropped everything to come rescue me. His dark lashes are long, framing his blue eyes in the most heart-stopping way.
“You weren’t kidding,” he says, eyes sweeping over the battlefield behind me. His eyes linger on the mess, probably trying to analyze where to start first before flicking, very briefly, to my bare thighs beneath the hem of the hoodie. He looksaway just as fast, clearing his throat. “Uh. You, uh… survive the bookshelf attack?”
I bite the inside of my cheek to hide a grin. “Barely. It put up a good fight.” I lift my arm, sliding up my sleeve to show the bruise that’s forming on my elbow while I step aside.
He comes inside, boots thudding heavy against the floor when he kicks them off. He scans the space again like he’s mentally creating a blueprint. He lands on the bookshelf, nodding his chin toward it. “You said this thing’s giving you trouble?”
“Giving me trouble is putting it lightly. It’s one wrong move away from committing homicide.”
He glances toward the lopsided shelf, eyebrows lifting. “You’re not wrong.”
I cross my arms, feeling defensive for some reason. “In my defense, the directions were written by sadists. They always say if you want to put your relationship to the test, buy furniture you have to assemble together.”
“Let me guess,” he mutters, crouching down to inspect the base, “you thought you could handle it because you’re an independent woman with a master’s degree?”
I narrow my eyes, but my lips twitch. “Don’t mock me while I’m vulnerable.”
“Not mocking,” he says, smirking just slightly. “Just observing.”
He braces one hand on the shelf, testing its balance. It groans in protest.
“I can help,” I offer, moving in beside him.
“Probably not a great idea—” Too late. I grab the opposite side of the shelf, giving it a little shake, and the entire thing teeters dangerously toward me.
“Shit!” I squeal, stepping back and losing my balance. His arm shoots out, strong and fast, circling my waist as his other hand catches the shelf before it crashes.
“Don’t move,” he says, his voice low but firm. His body is right behind mine, his chest pressed against my back as he reaches higher, holding the unit steady over my shoulder.
“I guess I should have taken the books off it, huh?”
He laughs and it’s unexpected. “That’s what I was going to suggest right before this happened.”
His voice is a low rumble that hits right behind my belly button, sizzling down until I feel warmth start to slowly radiate outward.Oh my God, I’m so turned on right now.I panic, attempting to squirm away from him, but it only makes it worse. Suddenly, it’s not the blush staining my cheeks that I’m focused on; it’s the slight twitch of something growing firm against my ass.
He glances down at me, eyes catching mine for half a second. The look is sharp, intense, like he’s thinking the exact same thing I am but trying really hard not to.
“Okay,” he finally says, clearing his throat and readjusting our bodies. “Back away slowly.”
I shuffle sideways, heart slamming so loud I’m positive he can hear it. He lets go once I’m out of range, running a palm over the side of the shelf like he’s soothing a wild animal. “You weren’t kidding. This thing’s a death trap.”
“I warned you,” I say, trying to sound breezy even as my face burns.
He crouches again, tracing his thumb over the crooked joint. “Looks like the cam bolts weren’t locked right. Easy fix.”
“Easy for you maybe,” I mutter.
He straightens, eyes glinting with quiet amusement. “Maybe you do need a man after all.”
I gasp in mock outrage. “Excuse me? I’ll have you know I’m fully capable of emotional self-sufficiency and medium-level assembly. This definitely qualifies as advanced.”
He grins. It’s quick and subtle but devastating. “Sure, you are, Simpson. Sure, you are.”
I cross my arms, pretending not to smile. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Hard not to,” he says, rolling his sleeves up to his forearms as he reaches for the shelf again.
I try not to stare at his hands while he reaches for the books and begins to pull them off the shelf. Try and fail miserably. I’m locked in so deep I’m chewing my bottom lip, trying to determine if I could even handle two of his fingers comfortably when he stands up and looks at me.
