She heads straight to my kitchen and makes coffee. Grinds the beans, measures the water, stands at my counter waiting for it to brew.
The first day I told her she didn’t have to do that.
“You know I don’t have anything at the Pierce place,” she said. “I might as well make it here. You still haven’t told me your Wi-Fi password, by the way.”
I have no idea why I’m holding this information hostage. Maybe because it’s the last boundary I have left. Maybe because if she has my Wi-Fi, she can work from my kitchen, and if she can work from my kitchen, she might never leave, and if she never leaves?—
I don’t let myself finish that thought.
“I have security measures in place with my employer…” I let the sentence drift off, noting the sight of her ignites something inside me. I have become obsessed with the smell of her hair, the way she purses her lips before stating something pleasant and unexpected and brutally optimistic like, “I just keep thinking about all the birds who must love those maple trees for nesting.”
Eva makes enough coffee for both of us. We drink it together while she asks how I slept and nags me about pain meds, and then she heads to her property to work.
My house feels different with her in it. Less like a cave, more like a home. I find myself listening for her knock. Missing her when she leaves. This is a problem.
My product launch for Meow Mobile was postponed, but I’m still behind. I should be panicking about that—should be calculating how many hours I’ve lost, how far behind schedule I’ve fallen, whether this is the project that does me in for good.
Instead, I’m at the window, watching Eva.
I’ve never been this distracted. Not even during Lia’s worst years, when I was running on three hours of sleep and mainlining coffee just to stay vertical. Back then, work was my anchor—the one thing I could control when everything else was falling apart.
I told Clayton about the injury, so he’s expecting reduced output from me. I didn’t mention I’m engulfed in flames of desire for the too-young girl next door. What was I doing at twenty-three? I guess I didn’t feel young while I was having conversations with colorectal surgeons.
Eva drags equipment out of an old shack, struggling with rusted tanks and pans, tools covered in decades of grime. She doesn’t flinch at any of it, and she wears work gloves, her hair tied back, jeans dirty.
She examines each piece carefully, takes photos with her phone, then sets it aside in organized piles. She’s methodical. Focused. I’m surprised she has the patience for this type of salvage, with her city life and her fancy phone.
Clayton and the people from Trede probably skewed my perception of city folk. Eva doesn’t act like someone with a silver spoon. She mentioned working in a bar, and she is clearly someone who knows how to work hard physically.
It’s hot.
The next day, she has a power washer.
I don’t know where she got it—maybe Diego at the Feed ‘n Seed—but she’s figured out how to use it. Water sprays in arcs, catching the afternoon sunlight. It’s warm for late February, and she’s outside in just a thermal shirt.
She’s soaked within minutes, and I can see her shivering from here, but she keeps working. Her shirt clings to her as water runs down her arms. She bends to adjust the nozzle, and her jeans stretch across her ass. She reaches up to spray a high spot and her shirt rides up, showing a strip of skin at her lower back.
My mouth runs dry.
I’m being a creep again, but I can’t make myself stop watching.
She’s not delicate. Not precious about getting dirty. My dick definitely notices. And it’s been a very, very long time since I paid him any attention.
I’ve dated a handful of women in the past few years—brief relationships that fizzled when they realized I wasn’t going to open up, wasn’t going to prioritize them over work, wasn’t going to be the kind of partner who shared his feelings over dinner.
None of them ever made me feel like this. Like I’m starving, and she’s the only thing that could fill me up.
The third day, she has loppers.
She’s clearing brush around the maple trees, cutting undergrowth that’s encroached over years of neglect. She works steadily: cut, drag, pile.
She bends to grab a branch?—
I force myself to look away. Back to my computer, to my work. Meow Mobile waits for no nosy man. Clayton moved the launch again, and I’m shocked when some of the interns he brought in are able to bang out the necessary coding while I’m busy staring at Eva Storm.
But I still need to check it all. Test it for bugs. Which I do, for exactly five minutes before I’m at the window again.
She’s stretching now, arching her back, wiping sweat from her forehead. A tight, thin, long-sleeved shirt clings to her in the sunshine.
