I don’t tell him the really deep stuff. Like the way holidays make me happy and sad at the same time, because for me they never look like the Hallmark card version I always wished for growing up. Like the way I think about my mom every day, and wonder if she thinks of me too.
I don’t get into my whole life story. I just tell him my mom wasn’t around and my dad raised me.
In turn, Luke tells me more about his life.
He tells me how he learned to ride a horse before he learned to ride a bike. How he’s fixing up the guest cabin on his parents’ property, the one he moved back into when he took his leave of absence from school.
“You’re doing all the work yourself?” I ask.
“If you want a job done right, better do it yourself.” The corner of his mouth lifts in a smile. “Plus, it’s a lot cheaper when you do your own labor.”
“Amen to that.” I grab a couple of shot glasses and pour us both whiskeys before sliding his across the bar. “To cheap labor.”
He catches the glass, his fingers brushing mine.
“Well now,” he says, eyes glinting with amusement as he raises it toward me, “I wouldn’t call myself cheap. Maybe reasonably priced.” That smile deepens into somethingwarmer. “But for the right project, I’ve been known to work for free.”
“What’s the right project?” I ask, unable to keep the curiosity out of my voice.
He takes a slow sip of his whiskey. “A passion project.” His gaze drops to my lips for just a fraction of a second before finding my eyes again. “The kind where you actually want to take your time. Have your fingerprints all over every inch.”
Good. Fucking. Lord.
Heat blooms in my cheeks, spreading down my neck. The air between us simmers, almost electric.
My imagination is running wild with the idea of Luke taking his time. Putting all his passion into a certain kind of project. Putting his fingerprints all overme.
When I finally glance back up at him through my lashes, he’s still watching me with that same warm, patient expression, like he’s got all the time in the world and he’s content to spend it right here.
I slam back my shot glass and down the whiskey in one swallow.
Damn, does it burn.
Even if I know the real reason I’m burning up inside has nothing to do with the whiskey, and everything to do with the cowboy sitting right across from me.
A few days later, I pull into the gravel lot behind Mad Dog’s and kill the engine. TheCLOSEDsign hangs in the window. We don’t open until four on Mondays. I wouldn’t normally be here since it’s my day off, but here I am anyway.
I left my favorite set of colored pens in the storage room last night, and I’d like to use my free time to finish up my latestdrawing.
The back door’s unlocked, which is weird. Dad’s supposed to be at a supplier meeting in Billings.
Then I hear it. The rhythmicthwackof a hammer against wood.
I round the corner of the building and stop dead.
Luke’s there, shirtless in the afternoon sun, a backwards baseball cap shading his neck. Sweat gleams across his shoulders as he drives another nail into fresh cedar siding. The muscles in his back flex with each swing.
I forget how to breathe for a second.
He must sense me because he turns, hammer still raised. A slow smile spreads across his face.
“Madison.” He lowers the hammer. “Thought you had the day off.”
“I do.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel. “Forgot something. What are you doing here?”
He gestures at the wall with the hammer. “Your dad mentioned the siding was rotting. Was gonna call someone, but...” He shrugs, and the movement does absolutely unfair things to his taut, ridged torso. “I’ve done plenty of maintenance at the ranch. Figured I’d save him a few hundred bucks.”
I step closer, examining his work. The new boards line up perfectly, the seams tight and clean. “You’re good at this.”
