Can’t stop thinking that maybe, just maybe, she felt it too.
The electricity. The connection. The sense that something’s shifting, something that goes way beyond a simple fundraiser partnership.
Something that’s probably going to get us all in trouble.
Something I’m pretty sure I’m not going to stop.
5
Callie
The broken fencerail has been mocking me for days now, hanging at an awkward angle that screams “Thompson property maintenance failure” to anyone driving past. Dad keeps saying he’ll get to it, but between work and his ongoing obsession with perfecting his chili recipe for the competition, it’s not happening.
So here I am at eleven p.m., sneaking across the yard with a hammer and handful of nails, hoping to fix it before he notices how bad it’s gotten. I’m wearing my sleep shorts and a ratty shirt that’s seen better days, perfect for late-night fence repair and then going directly to bed.
The fence rail isn’t just loose. It’s completely detached on one end and splintered on the other. This is going to require more than a quick nail job.
“Dammit,” I mutter, examining the damage moreclosely. The wood’s rotted through where it meets the post. This isn’t a cosmetic fix. It’s actual repair work.
I bend over to get a better look, and that’s when I hear footsteps behind me. My body recognizes them before my brain does, that particular gait, that deliberate pace. My skin prickles with awareness.
“You’re going to make it worse.”
I spin around to find Wyatt McCoy standing ten feet away, carrying what looks like a proper toolbox. The moonlight catches on his face, highlighting the strong line of his handsome jaw. Damn. I did not need to see this man tonight.
My mouth goes dry.
“What are you doing here?” I hiss, glancing toward the house to make sure Dad’s bedroom light is still off. “I gotta get this done while Dad’s asleep.”
“Saw you sneaking around with a hammer. Figured you were about to hurt yourself.”
“I know how to use a hammer.”
“Do you know how to use it correctly?”
“It’s a hammer, not a nuclear reactor.”
Wyatt steps closer still, and I can see the skeptical expression on his face even in the moonlight. His eyes do a slow sweep down my body, taking in my sleep shorts and shirt, and I see his jaw clench. “Show me.”
“Excuse me?” The words come out breathier than intended.
“Show me how you were planning to fix that rail.”
I hold up the hammer and point to the detached end, very aware of how the movement makes my top shift. “Nail it back to the post.”
“And the splintered part?”
“Nail it harder.”
Wyatt’s sigh is loud enough to wake half the county, but there’s something else in his expression. Heat, maybe? “That’s not how wood repair works.”
“Then enlighten me, oh master of fence maintenance.” I put my hands on my hips, which makes my shorts ride up slightly. His eyes track the movement.
He sets his toolbox down and opens it, revealing an organized collection of tools that makes my single hammer look pathetic. But I’m more focused on the way his muscles flex as he moves and the way his shirt pulls tight across his chest when he bends down.
“First,” he says, pulling out something that looks like a saw, his voice rougher than before, “you cut away the damaged wood. Then, you measure for a proper replacement piece. Then, you secure it with screws, not nails, because screws hold better in fence posts.”
“Huh.” I step closer, drawn to him like a magnet.
