My shoulders stiffen. Definitely not inviting him into my bedroom. “No, thanks. I’ll manage.”
“Okay, but...” His lips twitch. “Will you, though?”
“I’ll have to. I can’t pay you. I havenospare money right now.”
“Ainsley, I’m not after payment. Just being neighbourly.”
My eyes narrow. “Neighbourly, eh? Or are you trying to get on my good side in hopes I’ll...” I lower my voice “... drop my knickers out of gratitude?”
He nearly chokes on a laugh. “Jesus, woman. No. I’m working for you—it wouldn’t be professional.”
“Oh, really?” I fold my arms. “Because last night at the pub, you were laying it on thicker than plaster.”
He flashes me a cocky, lopsided smile. “Was I?”
“Aye. You were.”
“Fair enough.” He shrugs. “Iwasbeing flirty, but it was just a bit of banter. I promise, right now I’m only here offering to be a good neighbour. But if you’d rather I left you to it...”
He trails off, and I picture the carnage upstairs. The collapsed frame. The mattress still wrapped in plastic.
My pride wages war with practicality. Practicality wins.
“Fine,” I sigh. “Maybe I would appreciate a hand.”
“All right, then.” He steps inside, and suddenly the narrow hall feels even smaller. Up close, he’s so tall I have to tilt my head back to look at him properly. Without my heels, he’s more than a foot taller than me.
“After you,” I say, stepping aside. No way am I walking up the stairs in front of him and putting my arse at his eye level.
Which means I follow him up instead, his arse at my eye level.
Don’t look, I tell myself firmly.Do not look.
I look.
And what an arse it is. Tight, perfectly shaped, unfairly good in those khakis.
Fantastic. You’re meant to be keeping your distance, and here you are eyeing up his backside. Pull yourself together, Ainsley.
“So, just to check,” he calls over his shoulder as we near the top. My eyes snap up guiltily. “You didn’t lob any actual bed parts out the window, did you? Or was it just the manual?”
“Just the manual,” I grumble.
He steps into my bedroom and stops, taking in the chaos. Bed pieces scattered across the floor like someone’s detonated a flat-pack bomb. He presses his lips together, clearly trying not to laugh.
I hover in the doorway, suddenly hyper-aware that this is mybedroom. And he’s standing in it. It feels too intimate, too personal, having him here among my things.
It’s just a room, I remind myself.And he’s just fixing a bed. Nothing more.
“All right.” He crouches to examine the pieces. “Aye, here’s your issue. This bit’s the left side, not the right. You need to swap these pieces over.”
“Oh.” Irritation flickers through me—at myself, mostly, for not spotting something so obvious. And maybe a tiny bit at him for making it look so easy. “Well, DIY really isn’t my thing.”
He picks up the headboard from the carpet, tests its weight, then rests it against the wall. “Is this where you want the bed? Against this wall?”
“Yes, please.”
He glances at the wall, then back at me, a glint in his eye. “You know, my room’s a mirror of yours. Bed’s in the same spot. Means we’ll be sleeping with just brick and mortar between us.”
