I narrow my eyes. “I thought you had minions to do the work for you?”
“Yeah, but they’re not as pretty to look at,” he says with a wink.
He dips his chin a fraction, eyes flicking to my legs—like he knows. He knows, and he’s giving me an excuse to sit down without drawing attention to myself.
My chest tightens and my eyes suddenly burn. It’s stupid—so stupid—to be touched by something so small. But nobody has ever seen me the way this man does.
“Give me a few minutes. I’ll find someone to cover for me.”
His smile is immediate. “Good. I’ll be outside.”
As he walks off, I watch the sway of his perfect ass before calling Piper over to watch the door.
She doesn’t even hesitate when I tell her why, eyes twinkling. “Oh, of course. Go get ‘em, Tiger.”
I shake my head, skin heating.
The air is stagnant outside, not even a hint of a breeze, and the sun is low enough to cast most of the parking lot into shadow behind the trees. A part of me wonders if Fletcher had planned that, waiting until I would be in the shade before asking for my help. Not that it’s even that hot this time of year, but still. He knows how easily I overheat.
Fletcher is stacking some 2x4s near a sawhorse with a portable table saw. His eyes sweep over me as I approach. Not sexually—more like he’s trying to figure out how much pain I’m hiding.
“Hey. You good?” he asks quietly.
“Fine.”
I’m not fine—but fine enough. I’ll make it to the end of the shift.
He clearly wants to ask more, but he doesn’t push it. Instead, he gestures to the table saw with a barstool in front of it. “You know how to work one of those?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. Sit. I’ll mark, you cut.”
We work in an easy rhythm for twenty, maybe thirty minutes. The hum of the saw buzzes through my chest, vibrating my ribs, and the scent of raw pine fills the air, clean and sharp. But the only thing I can focus on is the relief in my feet.
How Fletcher knew I was near a breaking point is beyond me. The sly way he gave me relief without causing a scene means everything to me.
Fletcher has the kindest heart of anyone I know.
Fletcher whistles under his breath as he works—a deep, low tune from years ago. I recognize it even if I can’t name it. He nudges boards toward me one at a time, occasionally brushing my hand. Each accidental touch sends a stupid spark up my arm. I wish I could say it’s from desire, but honestly, it’s just the damn illness. Everything hurts today. I need rest.
As I cut the last one, he steps around the sawhorse to examine it. “Perfect.”
“Better be. You measured. I just cut where the line is.”
“Hey, you’d be surprised at how easily you can mess up. Trust me, even I do it.” He waves two of his crew members over and says, “Take these inside and stack them against the wall in the bathroom. We’ll need them tomorrow.”
“What about the vanity pieces?”
He sighs, like he forgot about those. “Just make it work. We’ll rearrange in the morning.”
“Got it.”
I hide a wince as I get to my feet.
Fletcher sees it, but instead of offering support, he gives me space. Trusting me to know my limits. I think that’s what I like the most about him; he doesn’t pamper or act like I’m broken. But he’s always there, too, ready to help.
I didn’t know how much I’d needed that until I had it.
