The air between us hums, and suddenly, I’m very aware that my hoodie barely covers my thighs, that his arm had been around my waist, palm flat against my stomach just two minutes ago, holding my body against his.
“Go sit down before you hurt yourself,” he says softly, not looking at me as he reaches for his tools and crouches back down.
I should. I absolutely should. But I just stand there, watching him instead, pulse racing and lips caught between my teeth.
“Cam locks weren’t rotated all the way,” he says, more to himself than to me. “And your floor’s a hair out of level. Not uncommon in all these new builds.” He tears a strip of cardboard from one of my boxes, folds it twice, and slips it under the back corner. “That’ll fix it.”
I try to act like I’m listening but I’m too focused on him… It’s his forearms. They’re thick with a dark smattering of hair and thick web of veins that bulge against his skin. Heat rushes up my neck when he stands, shrugs out of his flannel, and drops it onto my chair.
Fuck me.
The T-shirt underneath his flannel is so much worse. It pulls against his chest, the sleeves straining against his biceps that has one of the veins running up it. And his tattoos, oh my God, his tattoos. No longer does he have smudged, cheap tattoos on skinny arms. Now, they’re detailed and intricate, wrapping around his massive arms like a python wrestling a tree trunk.
I want to drag my tongue over them.
“You okay?” he asks without looking up.
“Yup,” I squeak, then clear my throat. “Totally fine. Just observing.”
“Uh-huh.” The corner of his mouth lifts.
He moves up the shelf, tightening, testing, tightening again. Every time he reaches overhead, the shirt rides up just enough to flash hard abdomen and that sharp V of his hips above his jeans. There’s another dark smattering of hair that thickens as it reaches his waistband and disappears. My brain abandons all higher functions to focus on the flex of his back beneath cotton and the way his biceps bunch when he braces the unit and wrenches a bolt into submission.
“How’s it look?” he asks, palm braced high as he holds it in place.
“Good, really good.”
He glances at me, clearly amused when he notices my eyes aren’t focused on the bookcase. “The shelf, Hailey. Is it level?”
“Oh. Yes. Very level. That’s what I mean. Good. It’s level.”Kill me.
He huffs a laugh, then steps back, testing for a wobble again. It doesn’t. “Better. I’ll still want to anchor it.” He glances down at his watch. “I’ll bring a drill and a stud finder tomorrow, throw a couple safety brackets in. We can finish the coffee table and that TV console too.”
“Tomorrow?” It slips out a little too eager. I try to tone it down. “I mean, it’s okay. I’m sure I can figure those out.”
“I was two blocks over doing trim when you texted,” he says, gathering up the little graveyard of wrong screws I abandoned. “I can swing by tomorrow after work. I’ll be here at six.”
“Oh.” My heart does a dumb cartwheel. “Right, okay. Yeah, that works. Thank you… for all of this.”
He shrugs like it’s nothing, grabs his flannel, and slides it back on which is objectively a tragedy, but he leaves the top buttons undone. “Don’t touch the unit until I anchor it.”
“Yes, sir,” I say before I can stop myself.
His eyes catch mine for a beat, something tight and electric pulling between us. Then he looks away, jaw flexing once. “Text me if anything else tries to crush you.”
“I will.” I walk him to the door, but he pauses, fingers on the knob. For half a second, I think he might say something he shouldn’t, but instead he nods toward the room behind me. “Don’t attempt to finish any of that stuff without me.”
“I can confidently say that you can trust me not to.” I laugh, the thought of trying to figure out that coffee table on my own already frustrating me.
His mouth twitches. “See you tomorrow, Hailey. Six.”
“See you tomorrow, Cole.”
I sink onto the couch, press my palms to my cheeks, and replay the last twenty minutes in hi-def: his arm locking around my waist, the heat of his chest against my back, the way his voice dipped when he told me not to move.
Did his cock really twitch against my ass?
It’s been a long time since a man made me feel like this. Back in Chicago, every date had the same glossy, forgettable finish. It was the same brand of guy over and over again. The ones who ordered espresso martinis and their only personality trait was which stock portfolio of theirs was doing the best. Waxed chests.Eyebrows better shaped than mine. The kind of men who’d panic worse than me if a screw stripped or a tire went flat.
