He bends to kiss my forehead, and something warm rolls through my belly. Nothing heavy, just… right.
“I’ll walk with you,” I tell him.
His brow lifts. “You sure?”
“Mm-hm.” I sip my coffee. “I like watching you work.”
He exhales a short laugh through his nose. “You’re trouble.”
“Thank you,” I reply sweetly.
He shakes his head, but his hand brushes my lower back as we walk—subtle but deliberate—and my heart clenches.
The sound of early morning construction is oddly peaceful. Hammers, muttered instructions, gravel shifting under boots. The skeletons of the new ranch houses rise like the beginnings of a story we haven’t finished writing yet.
Cole stops at the edge of the first foundation, hands on his hips, surveying everything like he’s translating a language only he speaks.
He looks good like this. Focused, in control, and in his element.
“You love this,” I say softly beside him. “Don’t you?”
His eyes stay forward. “Yeah. I do.”
“You’re good at it.”
He glances down at me. “You keep saying that.”
“Maybe you should start believing it.”
His eyes soften in that way he tries to hide. That way that makes me stupidly warm inside.
More of the crew starts trickling in, greeting him. He greets them back with nods—quiet leader, steady presence. He moves into work mode, and I step aside to let him handle it.
Time passes in a slow blur. He walks the grid, checks measurements, talks through adjustments with two of his guys. Ianswer a call, go through emails, and jot notes for payroll. Every so often, he glances over at me like he needs to make sure I’m still here.
I sit on a stack of lumber, pretending to review invoices, but really I’m watching him.
The sweat at the back of his neck, how his shirt clings between his shoulder blades, and the low rumble of his voice while he gives instructions. And his hands. God, those hands.
I’m so distracted I don’t realize how much time has passed until I notice him swiping the sweat off his brow with the hem of his shirt, revealing the kind of stomach that makes the air feel hot.
“Hey,” I call out, lifting a bottle of cold water. “How about a break?”
He turns, and that look he gives me? It hits low. Very low.
He walks over, and I stand, holding the bottle out.
“Thanks,” he murmurs, taking it from me. His fingers brush mine—warm and calloused—sending a small shiver up my arm.
He downs half the bottle in one go, throat working, sweat glistening down his temples. When he’s done, he hands it back, gaze lingering.
“You staring, Shiloh?” he asks quietly.
Heat shoots to my cheeks. “No.”
“Mm.” He steps closer. “Looked like staring.”
“I was observing,” I correct, lifting my chin.
