I close my eyes, say a prayer, and do a round of box breathing.
Inhale for a count of four.
Hold.
Exhale for a count of four.
Hold.
When I slide my eyes open, Miles looks like he’s fighting hard to hold in his laugh.
“Thanks for that, Jack. You are, too. And now, I need to run. My friend’s here to help with the house,” I say. “Bye. Love you guys.” I tap the screen, ending the call, desperate to keep my embarrassment to a manageable level.
“Good morning,” Miles says. He’s still trying—and failing—to stuff down a laugh. The way it pushes his cheeks high and lights up his eyes is a good look on him. “How was everything this morning? Enjoy your shower?” Casual as can be, he arches a brow and stuffs his hands into the pockets of his well-worn jeans.
I swear I can feel my blush rising from my chest, up my neck, and flushing my face bright red. Why the interest in my damn shower? He can’t know I was thinking about him in there the other night, can he? And if he does know, why the hell would he get rid of my handheld shower? A girl—well, a single mom—only has so much at her fingertips for a quick orgasm on the down-low. God knows, if I had a vibrator hidden away, Jake would find it and ask all the questions.
I drop my head forward, staring very intently at his work boots, because for the love of all things good and holy, I cannot look him in the eye. “It was fine.”
He snorts a laugh through his nose and mutters, “Hate that word,” under his breath.
“It was great. Perfect. Absolutely no complaints.” I lift my coffee mug, desperate for a different focus. “Can I get you a cup?”
“Nah, I’m good. I just wanted to let you know I’m here.” He turns back toward the garage and pauses, his fingers drumming against the door. “For what it’s worth, Jake probably knows more than you think about sex.” He chuckles softly as he disappears through the door.
As the door closes, I stand in the middle of my kitchen, not sure whether I want Miles to be right or utterly wrong. Maybe I should take Jack up on his offer. The guys from Dallas’s team swore to me at the funeral that they would do anything I needed. Help in any way. But do I really want a bunch of hard-charging, testosterone-filled, alpha males to explain the birds and the bees to my kid? Probably not.
I know I should go out there with Miles and clean the garage—I can practically smell the mildew from here—but I just can’t. I need a minute to tame my embarrassment, so I crank some music and give my house the deep clean that it desperately needs. I’m not sure how it can be as filthy as it is when we’ve only lived here for a few months. And where do all the lids to the storage containers go? I know for a fact that when I packed things up in New York, I got rid of anything that didn’t have a match. Stray lid with no bottom? Gone. Bottom with no matching lid? Out it went. And somehow, it feels like they’ve not just returned, but also multiplied.
I set to work with the matching game, making myself comfortable on the countertop so I can reach. This is one of the chores I should hand off to Jake. I need some help around here.
A crash echoes in the garage, followed by a loud, “Shit.”
I hop down and swing the door open.
Nothing in life could have prepared me for what greets my eyes.Sweet baby Jesus in a manger.
Low-slung jeans riding a tad lower due to the heavy tool belt testing gravity. Sweat-slicked muscle packed on top of sweat-slicked muscle, all barely contained beneath a tight gray t-shirt.
My mouth goes dry at the image of male perfection grunting in my garage.
For the first time in ages, I feel like a teenage girl lusting after her crush instead of a single mom.I can do this. It’s okay. Perfectly natural to have thoughts about Miles. To desire… something.
“Are you all right? I heard a crash,” I ask from the threshold.
Miles is standing on a raised platform, arms extended over his head, holding a huge sheet of drywall to the ceiling. A beam of lumber lies to one side, and screws are strewn across the floor.
“Yeah, I’m fine, but can you grab that two-by-four support and shove it up under that end of this sheet?” He nods his head, indicating what he’s talking about and where he needs it. He shifts under the awkward weight he’s balancing overhead, causing his shirt to lift, showing a hint of dark hair on his tight abs.
I should hurry, move with a little quickness to jump in and help him out, but the flood of lusty hormones seems to slow down my brain.
“Chloe? You gonna help me out here or what?”
“Mmm, yep.” I blow out a breath and get my ass in gear. The T-shaped support is heavier than it looks, and I struggle to get it upright and wedged under the sheetrock. “Like this?” I ask.
“Yeah, just grab the base and push it, so it’s in there good and tight,” Miles grunts out the words.
I know what he means. I know it’s innocent enough, and he just needs to make sure the unwieldy thing is fully supported before he lets go. I know all of this, but none of that matters.
