“Come in, Willow.”
I do.
And stop dead.
Holy. Shit.
He’s standing there.
Shirtless.
My brain stutters.
Fully stalls out.
There’s a damp pile of flannel and thermal shirts on the floor, and water beads on his skin, tracking down his chest and stomach in slow, merciless lines.
“You’re soaked!” I blurt, cheeks burning instantly.
“Leaky pipe,” he says calmly. “Got caught in it. Now—what can I help you with?”
I try very hard to look at his face.
“Oh—um—yeah.” I lift my clipboard like it might save me. “It says I’m supposed to restock the lunchroom?”
I let it hang as a question because suddenly words feel… risky. Like if I say the wrong thing, my brain might short-circuit entirely.
He nods.
“Yeah. Gotta make a Walmart run.”
“Walmart?”
He quirks a brow. “Supercenter.”
“Oh.” I nod quickly. That tracks.
Florida has those everywhere. Jersey—not so much.
“I’ll grab the company card,” he says, already reaching for his wallet. “Oh—and can you drive stick?”
“I can manage a stick shift,” I say, a little too fast, excited at the prospect of not driving my own crappy car.
His brow lifts. “Really?”
“Yeah. A cousin taught me when I was younger.”
I shrug, suddenly shy—but the faint smile that tugs at his mouth feels like a gold star I didn’t know I wanted.
“Good,” he says. “I want you to take one of the trucks.”
I nod.
And immediately regret having eyes.
Because as he turns, muscles roll beneath his skin with effortless power—broad shoulders, strong arms, his abdomen tightening as he moves.
There’s a light dusting of dark hair on his chest that disappears beneath the waistband of his jeans, and my thoughts follow it somewhere they absolutely should not.
