"Ha. Ha," I deadpan. "It's not my fault the last person to live in this house decided to tile the entire bathroom, including the walls."
Peter walks the length of the small room, running his hand over the tile that remains on the wall. "How long have you lived here?"
I can clearly see what he's getting at, but I answer anyway. "Four years."
"And you decided that right now is the best time to rip up your master bathroom?"
I bite my lip, choosing to go ahead and tell him the full extent. In for a penny, in for a pound. "My kitchen looks a lot like this, too."
He gives me an inscrutable look. There's something he's not saying, and I bet I know exactly what it is, because I'm thinking it myself.
Mywhy. Why would I choose to rip up my house when I'm planning a fast-track wedding? Who has time for that? Someone who wants to distract themselves from what it is they're really doing in life, that's who.
But I won't be having that come-to-Jesus with myself, or anyone else.
Defend. Deflect.
My fisted hands find my hips. "I did not expect you to come here and pass judgment. You're supposed to help me haul all this"—I bend, swiping up a loose tile from the ground—"away. So, are you in, or are you out, Sailor?"
He huffs a laugh. "I'm in, Sunshine. Anything for you."
The tile clatters to the ground.
Anything for you.
"Right," I whisper, turning away.
It has been years since anybody has said that to me. It's entirely possible the last person to say that phrase was Penn.Anything for you. The very phrase he uttered every time I called him into my house to help me with something that final summer.
"I need to grab another broom, I'll be back in a minute," I say in a rushed voice, hurrying from the room.
I could be thirteen years old again, confessing to Penn that I've never been kissed, and asking him to rectify that. The immense mortification, the glimmer of hope, they could be fresh emotions inside me.Anything for you. That was his response, followed by cupping my cheek, leaning forward, eyes locked on mine until the moment our lips touched.
I haven't allowed myself to think about that in so long, but three little words andboom!there it is, an avalanche bringing with it not just memories, but a barrage of emotions.
Get it together, I instruct, my inner voice harsh. I'm past all that. It's been a long damn time since everything happened. I'm a woman now, with a college degree, and I'm marrying a man most women in this town would give their right pinky toe to have. I'm not just fine, or great, I am OVER IT.
My resolve renewed, I grab the utility broom and dustpan and head back to my bathroom. Peter leans over my counter, pry bar wedged in place, pulling on the top end. He doesn't know I'm here yet, so I take a moment to study him. The man is dazzling, in the literal sense of the word. Sunlight streams through the clouded glass window beside my tub, highlighting his sandy blond hair, which has given up its fight to stay in place and flops over his forehead in the cutest way. The muscles in his upper back flex with his effort, cinching in the center. I bet his ab muscles are coiled tight, too, and those generous thighs are probably hard as he braces.
Am I in heat? Judging by the slickness accumulating at the apex of my thighs, I'm thinking I might be. How could I not be with the waves of masculinity rolling off this man?
"Sunshine?"
I rip my gaze from his backside, finding his eyes in the builder mirror above the sink. His grin is satisfied, the cat who ate the canary for sure, and I know there's no talking myself out of this one. Still, I have to give it the old college try.
I arch a brow, chin lifted haughtily."Yes, Sailor?"
"I'm not sure your fiancé would approve of you eye-fucking another man."
My jaw drops. I wasn't expecting him to say that. Side note: the term 'eye-fucking' coming from Peter's mouth sets a twinge low in my belly.
I recover. "That isnotwhat I was doing."
He ignores me, propping his foot on the wall to brace himself as he lifts up on his other foot, bringing all his weight down and, with a cracking noise, dislocates the cabinet from the wall. He pushes off, standing on two feet again, and looks back at me.
He walks closer, tool dangling lazy at his side. There's a playful tilt to his mouth. "Why don't you tell me exactly what it was you were doing standing there staring at me for a full ten seconds."
"Reconnaissance."
