She leans against the wall, watching me slide the scanner over drywall. “I’m impressed you didn’t pretend to beep yourself.”
“Do I look like that kind of clown?” I say gruffly, followed by a wink. I pencil two marks. “Left of the outlet, center here. You okay to hold while I anchor?”
“Put me to work.”
I set the console upright and show her brace points. We kneel shoulder to shoulder while I drive the first screws. Her thigh presses into mine when she shifts, and my body misreads it like she meant to. The smart thing would be to break the contact and readjust. Instead, I stay right where I’m at, pressing my thigh against hers.
“Keep pressure there.” My palm lands at her hip to square the panel. It’s completely unnecessary and we both know it. I should be ashamed at how unnecessarily handsy I’m being with her but my brain won’t let me the second I feel her warmth through the knit. She inhales sharp and quick, her eyes falling down to where I’m holding her. My hand wants to stay. It doesn’t get to.
“Good,” I say, moving back to the drill. “Don’t let it slip.”
“Not planning on it,” she answers, her voice a touch higher.
We finish the remaining mounts and I stand, tugging the frame to make sure it doesn’t move. “Done.”
She sits back on her heels, looking up at me, her cheeks pink. Before my brain tells me otherwise, I reach my hand down to help her up. She slides her delicate hand into mine and I tug her upward, way too hard. She gasps, tumbling right into my chest with a laugh.
“Fuck, sorry,” I apologize, my hands grabbing her upper arms to steady her.
“It’s okay. Just harder than I expected.” She laughs, reaching up to brush her hair out of her face and I do the same.
For some insane reason my hands are now tangled in her hair, attempting to smooth it back into place as she stares up at me with big, dangerous eyes. She freezes. So do I.
“You had some sawdust,” I lie, like that somehow makes it less intimate.
“Thanks,” she whispers.
I point myself at the safest thing in the room, stepping several feet away from her. “Pictures and then done, right?”
“Yes, yes, um, pictures,” she says softly, a knowing smile starting to pull at her lips.
I lay frames on the floor, set the grid, and measure the spacing. “Eye level center line or bump it for ceiling height?”
“You pick.” She hands me the tape. “I trust your eye; you’re the professional.”
“You know I build houses, right? I don’t decorate them.”
She shrugs with a teasing laugh. “Same thing.”
I stare at her for a second, ready to make a snarky comment back but think better of it.She isn’t your friend, Cole, and she sure as shit isn’t some sexy stranger you can indulge in a harmless hookup with.
I behave and turn my attention back to the pictures. We mark, drill, and tap anchors. We move quietly and efficiently; our shoulders brushing in tight passes. After several minutes, she breaks the silence.
“So—Bristol Construction, right?”
“Bristol Custom Homes.” I swap the drill for a hammer and tap in another anchor. She doesn’t ask when or how it started, but I fill the silence anyway. “Started as a framing gig when I came out here. Then it became a crew. And then after a shit ton of hard work, it became a company when I figured out no one was going to hand me a life I didn’t build myself.”
“That’s impressive, seriously. I mean, you were what—eighteen when you left?” Her voice gentles slightly without pity. “That’s… so young.”
“Nineteen. But still… Old enough to know better.” I set a nail. “Young enough to still be an idiot about it.”
“What was the first month like?”
I pause, the hammer pulled back, remembering those first few months. They were absolute hell, but I was too arrogant andprideful to ever apologize to my parents and go back home or ask for help.
“I used my truck for a bed. Ramen for dinner. Showered at a rec center where the water never got warm.” I shrug. “It was fine, though. I did two jobs most days. Framed at dawn, demo on weekends. Learned to keep my head down and show up sober.”
Her mouth tilts. “High bar.”
