“Bad dick has got to be better than chucking all my savings to the government.”
“At least you get the autonomy to do it your damn self. Bastards take all my money before I ever see it.”
“Fighting fires doesn’t make you rich, eh?”
I shrug. Regret it.
Sab’s brows cinch. “Hurt yourself?”
There he goes again, seeing straight through me in the first six seconds of our interaction when I’ve spent the last four hours hiding this shite from people who’ve known me years. “Old injury. Gets moody when it’s this cold. Gotta stretch it out, maybe. Just need to remember how—it’s been a minute.”
Sab snorts. “Sounds like me and sex.”
“You haven’t been knocking off women either?”
“Nah. Not since my ex.” Sab shivers, the motion as sudden as the subject retreat he swings into. “What’s up with your shoulder? Rotator cuff?”
“How’d you guess?”
“I tore mine lifting oak worktops. Bothered me in the gym back when I had time to go.”
Before his daughter, I assume, but it doesn’t feel right to poke at that just yet. Not when every conversation we have seems to start and end with sex.
I spot the bag tucked under his arm. “Christmas shopping already?”
“Lights. Cables were frayed on the old ones.”
“You bin them?”
Sab cocks his head, catching the instinctive sharpness I can’t help. “Buried them in a skip at work.”
“Under what?”
“Ripped-out waste disposal. Trust me, no one’s digging under there.”
“That’ll do.” I force the tension from my limbs and find a dry grin. “Sorry. Just seen Christmas go wrong too many times, you know?”
“Can imagine. My brother-in-law is a nurse. Gets all rowdy about ladders and sharp objects.”
“He’s not wrong.”
“I know.” Sab’s gaze slides to my radio.
A beat passes as Bing Crosby fills the space.
Then he reaches in and switches stations, his muscled arm an inch from my face, and I’m done. Who knew a breath of pinewood and vanilla could erase all thought and pain?
Me. That’s who. I knew it a week ago. But it still catches me napping, the urge to touch any part of him I can reach so strong I nearly do it.
I want to lick him.
Fecking hell.
Get a hold of yourself, lad.
I try.
I do.
