“It’s the right way to do it,” he says.
“Right is overrated.”
“Says the woman trying to fix a fence with a hammer at midnight.”
“Eleven p.m. It’s only eleven.”
“Whatever. You should be in bed.”
We look at each other, then back at the fence.
I watch him evaluate the broken rail, running his hands along the wood to check for other weak spots. His fingers are careful and methodical, and I find myself imagining those hands on my skin, that same careful attention to detail applied to?—
“Hand me that level,” he says without looking up.
“I don’t have a level.” My voice comes out shaky.
“Of course you don’t.” He pulls one out of his toolbox. “Here, hold this steady while I mark the cut line.”
I move closer to help, and that’s when it happens. He reaches around me to position the level, his chest pressing against my back, his arms caging me in against the fence post. Every nerve in my body lights up at once.
“Like this,” he says quietly, his breath warm against my ear, sending shivers down my spine.
Oh shit. This is not good.
My hands shake as I try to hold the level steady. “I think I can manage.”
“Your hands are shaking.” His voice has dropped an octave, become intimate.
“It’s cold.”
“It’s seventy degrees.” He’s so close I can feel his heartbeat against my back.
“I’m always cold.”
His hands cover mine, steadying both me and the level. His palms are warm and rough with calluses, and I can feel the strength in his fingers as he guides my grip.
“Better?” he asks, and his lips brush my ear.
“Yeah,” I whisper, though I’m not entirely sure we’re still talking about the level. My entire body is hyperaware of his. The solid wall of his chest, the way his thighs bracket mine, the heat of him seeping through my thin clothes.
We stay like that for longer than necessary, making me want to turn in his arms and?—
“Callie,” he says, his voice strained.
“Yeah?”
“You’re infuriating.”
I turn in his arms, which puts us face-to-face, only inches apart. “Funny, I was thinking the same thing about you.”
“Yeah?”
“You show up here with your fancy tools and superior attitude, acting like I can’t handle basic home repair.”
“But you can’t handle basic home repair.” His hands have moved to my waist, his thumbs finding the strip of bare skin where my top has ridden up.
“Says who?”
