I’m halfway to the stairs when he calls out from the recliner. “You sure you two were just puttin’ up the fence?”
My head whips toward him. “What else would we be doing?”
Pops shrugs, mustache twitching. “No idea, darlin’.”
Heat rushes up my neck. I spin on my heel and head upstairs before he can see the guilt written all over my face.
In the shower, I scrub mud from my hands, my stomach, my breasts—willing the guilt to go down the drain with it.
I nearly fall on my ass when I come down the stairs after my shower and hear Tripp talking to Pops.
My eyes narrow at him as he sits at the kitchen table, completely at ease like he belongs here with clothes still covered in mud. He cocks a brow at me, probably wondering why I’m glaring.
I shake my head and slip into the kitchen so I can make us some lunch.
“What’s on the menu, Quinnie?” he asks, like this is a normal Monday. Dimples popping, voice all smooth innocence.
“Fajitas,” I say, purposefully not mentioning they’re veggie fajitas.
“Sounds good,” Tripp replies. “Doesn’t it, Pops?”
“I’m sure she’ll find a way to make fajitas unappetizing too.”
“Oh, hush,” I chide, pulling the veggies from the fridge.
Tripp scrubs his hands at the sink, then steps up beside me, wrapping a hand around my waist to shift me over. His touch lingers, and a thrill shoots up my spine.
“I’ll help you chop,” he mutters.
The screen door creaks open, and Wes and Sawyer kick off their boots at the door.
I immediately hand my knife to Tripp and bolt to the other side of the kitchen, pretending to search for seasonings.
Tripp rolls his eyes at how obvious I am. I’m already sweating, and Wes hasn’t even said a word.
How does Tripp look so relaxed when he just had his hands all over me minutes ago? He’s so much better at this than I am.
I quietly line up the seasonings like they might shield me from the heat radiating off the man at the cutting board. The oil starts to sizzle while Tripp chops the vegetables like none of this is weird.
“The pen looks good,” Wes grunts as he plops into a chair.
“I’m sure Winston will love having some mud to wallow in,” Sawyer adds.
I smile at the thought. “I can’t wait to see what he thinks of it.”
“Bet that mud was a bitch to work in this morning,” Sawyer says.
“Looked like you two had a hell of a time,” Wes remarks, grabbing a drink from the fridge.
Tripp keeps chopping, but my spine goes rigid.
“Yeah, it was pretty messy, but we didn’t mind gettin’ a little dirty for Winston, right, Quinnie?”
I hear the smile in his voice and would like nothing more than to march over there and knee him in the balls.
He must sense it, because when I glance over, he tosses me a wink, and that damn dimpled smile—and I’m immediately a puddle.
“Right,” I mumble, gripping the spice jar a little harder than necessary.
