He stops a foot away from me. Why does he have to smell so good? Like his usual cedar and citrus, but this time with a dash of peppermint.
"Are you ascertaining strategic features?"
"What? No." I'm not entirely sure what that means.
"Are you locating an enemy?"
"Also no."
He grins. "Then you weren't engaging in reconnaissance."
I blow out a loud, overly done, annoyed breath. "There was a spider next to your foot, and I was watching it to make sure it didn't crawl onto your leg."
"You're cute when you lie."
Ohh this man. He's stubborn, and tenacious, and low-key infuriating. Why can't he let me ogle without rubbing my face in it?
He steps closer, six inches separating us. He looks down at me. "Admit it, Sunshine."
I glare up at him. "Never, Sailor."
He nods slowly, tongue darting out to wet his upper lip. "You are so fucking stubborn."
"Takes one to know one."
We're quiet. His chest rises, falls, his gaze searching my face. The air between us grows heavy and thick. My heart beats likea hummingbird, a thrum in my chest. What would it be like to run my hand through his messy hair? Scratch my nails over his scalp? Would his eyes close, expression relaxing with the goodness of it?
As if reading my mind, Peter's hand lifts. Fingers sweep my hair. My head tilts up, arching closer to his touch, seeking him. His thumb grazes my ear, his fingers brushing my forehead, fire burning brightly in his eyes.
He steps back suddenly, ripping his gaze and his proximity away from me, working the pad of his thumb over his fingers like he's attempting to get something off his skin. "There was something in your hair," he says, voice strained. He resumes his work on the cabinet, positioning the pry bar and pulling the cabinet further from the wall with a newfound ferocity. "Is your fiancé's job really keeping him"—heavy exhale as a section comes away from the wall—"from being here helping you?"
I blink against the abrupt atmospheric change. My heart rate is still trying to recalibrate from where it went when his fingers caressed my skin, and now I'm hustling to meet Peter at the next place his mind went.
"Duke is not the kind of guy to get his hands dirty." I sweep tile into the dustpan. "Though he would argue my assertion because hewantsto be a guy who gets his hands dirty."
"Ah. So he has dirty aspirations?"
I widen my eyes, waiting for Peter to get the connection.
"Yeah," he nods. "I heard it."
I grin. "Duke wants to be a man who's handy around the house. Changes the oil in his car. Yada yada. But he's not."
Peter nods. His face is a mask of nothingness, so it's impossible for me to tell if he has an opinion about this. "He's a good man, though."
"I hope so. You're marrying him." Peter's voice is roughened by an emotion I can't name. I can't figure out why every time wetalk about Duke or my engagement Peter becomes pricklier than the cactus in my front yard.
We're quiet after that, working in a companionable silence. Peter focuses on removing the tile from the walls, and I collect the detritus, filling up two black heavy-duty trash bags.
Together we take the bags of tile to his truck, adding them to what's already back there.
"Is that stuff from the Bellamy house?"
He nods. "One of many trips."
"Is it a mess?"
"Everything but the front yard."
