Damon
“Isit lined up with the stud?”
“Hell, yeah, baby,” Rudy leered. “All the ladies say so.”
I rolled my eyes. “Holding sheetrock here. How about you get on with nailing it in place?”
“You want me to nail you?” he said. “I don’t know if I’m into that.”
“Jesus fucking Chri?—”
My foreman Lyle Jennings came into view, and I clamped my jaw shut. Rudy pounded a couple of nails into the panel like a diligent little worker instead of an annoying motormouth.
Once the panel was affixed to the studs, I dropped my arms and shook them out. “Next time, you can hold the sheetrock.”
“With these short arms?” he said, shaking his head. “No can do.”
“All right, guys,” Lyle said. “It’s lunch.”
Thank fuck. We’d gotten started at the buttcrack of dawn, also known as six a.m., and it was hot as balls out today.
I yanked off my work gloves, swiped my sweaty hands on my jeans, then tugged off my work vest.
Across the room, Ted had the same idea, only he stripped off his T-shirt too. Damn. He was more built than me.
While I watched, he upended a bottle of water over his head with an exaggerated groan of relief. My stomach gave an odd twist at the sight.
I must be hungry.
“Ow-ow-ow!” Rudy cat-called. “Go outside if you’re gonna get naked. Damn man, we’re not into that.”
“Speak for yourself,” Carl called back. “Lyle probably digs it.”
“Lyle only digs his boyfriend,” Lyle said dryly. “And if Truman asks, you assholes better all say exactly that.”
The guys laughed. Things had been awkward when Lyle and Truman first became a couple, but Truman’s dad—and the owner of Scott Construction Company—had told us in no uncertain terms that we could pack our shit and get out if we wanted to act like homophobes. The guys got on board, most of them because they needed the paycheck. But I’d always been a live and let live kind of guy, anyway.
I fell into step with Lyle as he headed outside. A lot of guys brought their lunch to the worksite, but I wanted an air-conditioned reprieve. Luckily, the subdivision development wasn’t far from downtown.
“I’m gonna grab a bite at The Stag Pub,” I said. “You in?”
“Yeah, sure. Truman made me an egg-salad sandwich, but I can’t bring myself to eat it.”
I laughed. “Why don’t you tell him you don’t want it?”
“He was so cute. He got this egg cooker, and he spent aridiculous amount of time peeling the eggs and mixing it up.” He shrugged. “I didn’t want to disappoint him.”
“That’s…”
“Sappy?”
I smirked. “You said it, not me.”
But I damn sure thought it. I couldn’t imagine losing my shit over a woman that way. I’d had a few girlfriends, some even serious, but no one that made me feel any kind of special way.
Not enough to pretend to like egg salad, anyway.
“We can take my truck,” I said.
