We stood close enough the scent of his cologne wrapped around us.
It had an almost vintage smell to it, bourbon or something similar.
I should move away.
One step to the side, and there would be enough distance between us I’d stop noticing his thumb tracing small circles on my back. “Thanks.” I cleared the huskiness from my voice. “Nice reflexes.”
“Anytime.” He took his time letting me go. “Next time, wait for me to hold the ladder.”
Next time. Like there would be a dozen more moments with his hands on my body, steadying me and keeping me safe.
I turned toward the bar. “I’m going to hang more decorations. In there.” I pointed toward the tables, chairs, and fireplace. “Without the ladder.”
“The shamrock window clings are in that box.” He hooked his thumb over his shoulder. “And Maeve’s favorite statues. Surely you can’t get in trouble with those.”
“I don’t know. Does she still have the naked statue of St. Michael?”
Declan’s face reddened. He spluttered and coughed. “A what?”
My smile broke free, along with a laugh. “Guess she put that one away.”
The door swung open, letting in a gust of cold air and Mrs. Whittaker in a purple coat that resembled a grape. “Bree, dear.” She clapped and waved. “The place is looking lovely. Maeve would be so pleased.” j
“Thank you, that means a lot.” I turned away before the tight feeling in my throat spread to tears in my eyes.
“Declan, be a dear and pour me a coffee.” She settled on a barstool with a satisfied smile. “Extra Bailey’s.”
Declan arched his eyebrows at me in a full smirk and fixed the coffee to Mrs. Whittaker’s exact specifications.
I grabbed another strand of garland, and the box of window clings, and focused very hard on forgetting how wonderful his hands had felt on my body.
“You’ve got three of Clover Hill’s finest wrapped around your little finger already.” Mrs. Whittaker sipped her Bailey’s with a splash of coffee and eyed me over the rim of her cup.
Heat crawled up my neck. “That’s no–”
“Oh, don’t deny it. I’ve got eyes on you.” She took a long sip. “That Finn has been in here every day since you arrived. Ronan can’t seem to finalize a single renovation decision without asking you. And Declan here–”
“More coffee?” Desperate to derail the conversation, I pointed at Declan. “Why don’t you fix her another cup.”
Declan’s lips twitched. Bastard was enjoying this.
The door opened again, and Ronan stepped through. We were turning into a fucking three ring circus at this rate.
But holy hell did he look delicious in his flannel shirt.
My stomach did that stupid flip-flop thing that kept happening around him.
Something about his broad shoulders that looked like they could carry the weight of the world without bowing. And his hands.
I’d never been obsessed with hands, but Ronan’s held me captive with all the scars and calluses from years of labor.
“Bree.” He nodded at me, then Declan. “Got those paint samples you wanted to look at.”
Mrs. Whittaker wiggled her eyebrows as though to prove her point.
Ronan had delivered every sample by hand.
He stopped by to ask questions instead of calling, and he asked my opinion on everything while standing so close I often walked away with sawdust on my jeans where it fell off his shirt.
