He grabs his toolbox. “Lead the way.”
The stairs to the upstairs lounge creak with every step. It’s quieter up here, the music softer, and the air smells faintly of old wood, citrus cleaner, and whatever fancy whiskey T keeps trying to push on the regulars. The bar glows with soft purple LEDs, and the lounge itself is all overstuffed couches, retro wall art, and an abundance of private corners.
I lean against the bar with deceptive casualness, which is impressive considering I’ve spent years perfecting my angles and I am absolutely using every single one right now. After all the texting, voice notes, and flirting of the past few days, I want to bring this man to his knees.
Sure, I’m still not certain where any of this is going now that he’s back. Hell, I don’t even know if there’s anusyet. But if the flirting is anything to go by, Miles is down for at least a little fun.
He’s propped against the doorframe, hands shoved into his pockets, and looking, if I’m honest, entirely too edible for a Monday afternoon. His gaze meets mine and lingers, nothing but heat burning there.
I look at him, really look at him, the way I used to when we were both stupid kids with nothing to lose. The years have done him favors. So many favors. His stubble is thicker, hisshoulders broader, and there’s just enough gray at his temples to make my stomach do embarrassing things.
I draw myself up to my full height, which in these boots is nothing to sneeze at, swishing the velvet hem of my miniskirt and petticoats as I sashay toward him. There’s a metallic tick tick tick of my heels against the old wooden floor, echoing through the empty lounge, and it’s honestly delicious. The anticipation, the showmanship, the way his breath hitches as I close the gap.
“See something you like?”
Miles’s lips curl into a lazy, crooked half-smile. “Just appreciating the view,” he says, openly raking his eyes up and down my body. No shame whatsoever. It’s almost cute.
Backing up, I slip behind the bar, letting my hip brush deliberately against his as I pass. He smells like sawdust and aftershave, a hint of sweat lingering beneath it, and I want to climb him like a tree.
I open the fridge with a flourish, bending at the waist just enough to give him a show. The air is chilly up here, prickling my thighs above the tops of my stockings. “Maybe if you’re good, I’ll let you have a pick,” I toss over my shoulder.
Miles inhales sharply. I grin into the fridge. This is what we do. This is what we’ve always done. Wind each other up, push buttons, see who cracks first.
Behind me, he laughs, a low, hungry sound that slides right down my spine. When I turn, I catch him watching, eyes dark and intent. “Depends on your definition of good,” he says softly.
The tension in the room is not subtle. If I could bottle it, I’d make a killing selling it as poppers.
I step out from behind the bar, pressing into his space. “So, this is your plan, huh?” I purr. “Fix the fridge, flirt with the owner, see if you get to go home with a prize?”
His hands hang loose at his sides, but there’s nothing casual about the way he stands. “Not a plan,” he says, voice thick. “More like wishful thinking.”
I trail a manicured finger down his work shirt, catching on that smear of paint. I laugh, soft and wicked. “You’re easy.”
He leans in, crowding my space but not quite touching me. “Only for you.”
The words are simple. But they hit like thunder.
I tilt my head, studying him. “Is that what this is? You coming back around to finish what we started?”
“I want a second chance,” he says, voice low and rough. “At all of it. You. This. That a problem?”
The way he saysyoumakes me ache. And the challenge underneath it, that quiet, daring question. Is it a problem? Oh, baby. He really has no idea who he’s up against.
I keep the game going, lips twitching. “Depends. What are you going to do to get it?”
“Anything,” he says without hesitation, almost a growl. My stomach flips.
My smile sharpens. “Anything,” I echo, savoring the word. “You’re sure?”
He nods, jaw set, eyes never leaving mine.
I let the moment stretch before I finally give in, letting my hand trail up his arm, lingering over the rolled sleeve and paint-stained skin beneath.
“Tell me what you want, handyman,” I whisper.
Miles’s eyes go dark, heat blazing there. “You.”
Simple. Honest. No hesitation.
