“Becker, if you stare at that screwdriver any harder, it’s going to spontaneously combust.”
Sloane’s voice snaps me back into the Main Hall.
We’re surrounded by stacks of heavy, flat cardboard boxes. The space has been transformed into a logistical nightmare. Each couple has a designated area outlined with pink glitter tape. In the center of every zone sits a massive box stamped with some unpronounceable Swedish logo.
Aunt Tina stands on a step ladder (why?), dressed as aSexy Construction Foreman, complete with a glitter-covered yellow hard hat.
“Welcome to the trial by fire!” she bellows through a megaphone. “TheDomestic Harmony Challenge!
They say assembling Swedish furniture together is the number one cause of divorce in the Western world. Today, we find out who survives!”
She pauses for effect.
“Rule number one: No instructions. We burned them in the Heart-Shaped Bonfire. You must rely on instinct!
Rule number two: You have forty-five minutes.
Rule number three: If the furniture collapses when I touch it, you lose fifty points!”
I look at our box.
It shows a vanity table with a mirror and a stool.
“Fantastic,” I mutter. “A thousand microscopic pieces and glass. A massacre waiting to happen.”
“Stop whining and grab the box cutter,” Sloane orders.
Her hair is pulled into a high ponytail, and there’s that battle-commander focus in her eyes.
It’s insanely sexy.
“GO!”
Tina’s whistle shrieks, unleashing instant chaos.
I rip open the box. Sawdust and screws explode everywhere.
“Okay,” I say, grabbing two random boards. “This looks like a leg. This looks like the top. Let’s just screw everything together and pray for the best.”
“Freeze those giant hands!”
Sloane grabs my wrist. Her skin is cool against mine.
“That’s not how this works. We need to sort the pieces. Long screws here, short screws there. Wood dowels on this side.”
“Angel, it’s a table, not open-heart surgery. It just has to stand.”
“If you build it, it’ll stand for three minutes and then spontaneously implode. Organization, Becker. It’s the key.”
She bends down to separate the screws. Her black leggings stretch over her thighs and ass.
I bite my tongue to keep from groaning.
The caveman part of my brain stops thinking entirely and starts chanting:
Take her. Now. On top of the boxes and the scattered parts.
I shake my head, trying to clear the image.
