"I want to see if you're actually as good as you claim," she says, pointing her fork at me like a weapon.
I shove the last of my breakfast in my mouth and stand up, already reaching for my keys. "Finish your coffee. We're going."
"Now?" she asks, but she's already standing.
"Yeah. Before I lose my nerve and realize you'll probably find a dozen things wrong." I'm heading for the door, adrenaline spiking at the thought of showing her what I've built.
I head to the back and put something in the back. I sit in the truck waiting for her. Twenty minutes later she's sliding into my work truck that smells like sawdust and sweat. She doesn't seem to mind, just buckles her seatbelt and reaches for the radio like she owns the place.
Which she does, I guess. Owns me, owns this truck, owns everything that matters in ways I'm still figuring out.
Foo Fighters comes on, "The Pretender," and she starts actually singing. Not humming. Full-on singing with a voice that's fucking beautiful. My hands tighten on the steering wheel because this woman keeps surprising me in ways that make my chest tight.
"You know this song?" she asks, turning to look at me.
"Know it? Foo Fighters has been my favorite band since I was seventeen," I say, joining in on the chorus.
"Seriously? You don't seem the type."
"What type do I seem like?" I ask, genuinely curious.
"Country? Classic rock? Something with tractors?"
I laugh so hard I nearly swerve. "Tractors? I build houses, not barns."
My hand finds her knee without permission from my brain, squeezing gently through her leggings. "Though I do look good in flannel."
"You do," she agrees, voice going breathless in a way that makes my scent spike with satisfaction.
We sing along to whatever comes on. Turns out she knows half my construction playlist. Every time she hits a high note or laughs at something I sing, I fall a little harder.
The resort comes into view as we round the curve, and I hold my breath waiting for her reaction. It’s looking fucking spectacular, if I do say so myself.
"Holy shit, Griff," she breathes, hands pressed to the passenger window.
Pride swells in my chest like a balloon. "That's what I like to hear."
I park near the staging area, shut off the engine and turn to face her properly. "Called in every favor for permits. Got my college roommate to bump our electrical inspection. Used my own money for backup crews when weather delayed everything."
I count off on my fingers, callused from years of swinging hammers. "I drove to three states for materials. Slept here four nights last week when the heating installation ran behind."
"You slept here?" Her voice goes soft. "I thought you came home late."
Kicks me in the gut that she didn't notice the nights I was gone. But I shouldn't be sensitive about it. We've all been busy.
"Someone had to make sure they didn't screw it up," I shrug. "This wedding's important."
She goes still, studying my face like she's looking for something. "Griff..."
"Used my own money because I couldn't let budget constraints mess us over."
She reaches into the back seat and pulls out a wicker basket. "Come on. Let's eat."
I stare at the basket, then at her. "That's what you put back there?"
"I packed sandwiches. We're having a construction site picnic." She grins, and it makes my chest do something stupid and warm.
My grin nearly splits my face. "Sweetheart, I just cleared my afternoon."
