The buzzer crackles. “Hi—yep, come on up.”
I take the stairs two at a time because the elevator’s still possessed, not because I’m that excited to see her. But when she answers the door, she calls my bluff without saying a word.
She’s barefoot this time and her hair is down, falling around her face in sleek waves. And I swear she’s wearing a whisper of makeup that makes her eyes pop. The oversized hoodie is gone, replaced with fitted long-sleeve tee tucked into knit pants that cling in ways I don’t need to be cataloging.
“Hi,” she says, smiling like she’s been practicing it all afternoon. “I made cocoa.”
“Cocoa’s good.” I step inside. The place smells like sweet chocolate. She hands me a mug with a large marshmallow snowman floating belly-up with a melting, lopsided smile.
“Don’t judge me. I go a little over the top at Christmas. It’s my favorite holiday.”
I lift the cup in a small salute. “No complaints from me.”
Her gaze skims over me. “You look very… contractor-y.”
“Contractor-y?” My brow crooks and she laughs.
“I just mean with the tool belt and pencil behind the ear.” She nods toward it and I reach up to pull the pencil down.
I nod at her pants. “You look like you’re dressed to work this time.”
“I am.” She juts her chin out like she’s determined. “If I don’t help, I’ll forget how to be a functioning adult and start calling you to change lightbulbs. My pride can’t take that and I should probably learn a few new skills for life on my own.”
I should tell her no. Not because she can’t but because I don’t need her in my space or under my hands. Yesterday was already too close and I’m still trying to get her scent out of nose.
“We’ll go slow,” I say anyway. “Follow my lead. No hero moves this time.”
“Yes, sir.” She blushes. “I mean—yes. Sure.”
I don’t hide my smirk this time when she says it. But I do set the cocoa down before I forget what we’re doing and try to push things further. “Coffee table first. Then TV and pictures.”
She kneels on the rug like we’re about to perform surgery, tucking one leg under, neat and eager. “I got stuck at the part where the tiny cartoon man grows eight hands.”
“Cam locks and dowels.” I crouch opposite her, our knees almost touching. “Keep the arrows on the cams pointing toward the hole. Quarter turn only.”
She leans in, tongue peeking out the corner of her mouth while she slides a dowel home. “Like this?”
“Exactly.” My knuckles brush her fingers when I steady the panel. The contact is minuscule but we both notice it. We both go still for a beat, then I clear my throat and move on. Pretty quickly, we find a rhythm: she feeds me hardware; I torque things down. And every time our hands meet in the middle and her fingertips touch mine, I pretend that I don’t have to stop myself from grabbing her hand and tugging her into my lap.
“Flip,” I say. We roll the tabletop together. Her knee bumps mine as she reaches, and the hem of her shirt lifts just enough to flash a sliver of bare skin at her waist.
“Sorry,” she murmurs.
“You’re fine.” My voice drops a shade too low as my eyes stay steady on her waist. “Hold it there.”
How the fuck does an inch of skin have you tripping over your own tongue?
We slot the last leg and tighten the screws, finishing it in no time.
“Not bad, Simpson,” I say as we look at the finished table. “You might have a future in carpentry after all.”
She beams, running her hand over the edge of the table. “Aw, our first furniture baby.”
The corner of my mouth betrays me with a twitch. I stand and scan the room for our next project so I don’t fall into the easy, flirty banter that feels like it would flow naturally between us. “TV console is the second baby, right?”
Her eyes flash to mine the second I say the wordbaby.I heard it too, the way my voice dipped low. But then she blinks and smiles, pointing at a flat box on the other side of the room. “And if you’re up for it after the TV, the gallery wall and a full-length mirror need mounted.”
“TV first.” I grab my stud finder. “We’ll anchor the console so it doesn’t try to kill you.”
