She laughed as she closed the door. It was way too early for this level of Jack.
Fifteen minutes later, she emerged feeling slightly more human. She’d swapped her sleep shorts for sweats and managed to wrangle her hair into a somewhat presentable ponytail. Jack, annoyingly, still hadn’t put his shirt on.
“So,” she said, clapping her hands and very deliberately not looking at his abs, “what’s the game plan?”
Jack straightened up, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Well, the porch is mostly under control. Thought you might want to tackle painting the rails. Unless you’d prefer to handle the heavy lifting.”
She snorted. “Please. I’ve painted this porch more times than I can count. Where’s the paint?”
He pointed to a stack of supplies near the steps. “Just delivered. Knock yourself out. But try not to get more paint on yourself than on the porch.”
“Ha ha,” she said dryly, heading for the paint cans. “I’m an excellent painter. I once painted my entire apartment without getting a drop on the carpet.”
“Impressive,” Jack said, picking up his hammer. “But can you do it while I offer unhelpful commentary and flex unnecessarily?”
She rolled her eyes, fighting a smile. “I’m sure I’ll manage. Just don’t hurt yourself. I wouldn’t want to have to call an ambulance.”
He chuckled, his grin as infuriating as it was charming. “Don’t worry about me. Just focus on keeping the paint off Sam.”
She glanced at the Saint Bernard, who was sprawled even more dramatically on the porch than before, his eyesshuttered. His tail thumped lazily every so often, wagging in slow motion.
They settled into a rhythm after that. The steady thud of Jack’s hammer mingled with the swish of her paintbrush. Despite the early hour, she found herself almost enjoying it. The fresh air and the repetitive motion were oddly soothing.
Not to mention the view. Which she wasn’t looking at. Much.
“You missed a spot,” Jack called out, breaking her concentration.
She turned. “What? Where?”
He tapped his own nose. “Right there.”
She reached up, only to feel wet paint on her nose. “Oh, for Pete’s sake,” she grumbled, trying to wipe it off but only making it worse.
Jack laughed and stepped closer. “Here, let me.”
Before she could protest, he reached out and gently brushed the paint away with his thumb. For a second, they were inches apart, his touch lingering a little longer than necessary. His skin smelled of sawdust and sweat, and her heart did an embarrassing little flip.
“There,” he said softly, his hand dropping away. “All better.”
“Thanks,” she managed to say, suddenly breathless.
He stepped back, clearing his throat. “Can’t have you walking around looking like a deranged Picasso, can we?”
She let out a shaky laugh, turning back to the rails. “Right. That’d be the real tragedy here. Not the fact that I’m up at the crack of dawn doing manual labor.”
“Hey, some of us have been up for hours,” Jack said, picking up his hammer again. “City folks are just soft.”
“Soft?” she shot back, glancing over her shoulder. “I’ll have you know I once stayed up seventy-two hours straight during a food festival, running on nothing but snacks and sheer willpower.”
“Impressive,” he said. “But can you grind your own wheat into flour?”
“Can you navigate the subway during rush hour?”
“Touché.” He laughed. “Though I’m pretty sure dodging Aggie on a gossip bender is about the same.”
They bantered as they worked, the morning slipping by. By the time they were finished, the porch looked better than it had in years, and her arms were as wiggly as Jell-O.
“Well,” Jack said, stepping back to admire their work. “Not bad for a morning’s effort. What do you think?”
