“Yeah. I remember.” I step a fraction closer—just enough for her to feel it. Just enough that the space between us closes more. “But let’s not pretend,” I add, keeping my voice low and honest. “That word doesn’t make you any less distracting.” Her breathstutters, and I see the exact moment she forgets what she was about to say. “I’m trying to behave. But you standing here like that? Acting like you don’t know what you do to me?”
Her lips part in shock, and it takes all the restraint I have not to press my lips to the spot I remember drives her crazy on her neck. The one where I can feel her pulse on my lips and know that the effect we have on each other is mutual.
But I step away and shrug. “I can’t help it.”
My hands curl into fists at my side because the urge to reach for her and touch her is so strong.
She opens her mouth to say something, but stops herself. There’s this part of me that wants to hear her say my name—in a whisper, a plea,anything. But the sound of the truck beeping behind me pulls both of us from the moment. We both snap our heads to find Levi backing up the driveway.
I turn and make my way toward the truck before I can dig a deeper hole for myself. But I don’t miss the way she’s still standing there when I move away.
Like she felt it, too.
Helping Levi and the rest of the crew unload the truck, I keep my hands busy. It’s the only way I’ve managed to ever work through anything I’m feeling. I tell myself that physical work has always been my way out when my head gets too loud.
Right now, it’s screaming.
And it has everything to do with the woman standing a few feet away from me, popping Sour Patch Kids into her mouth before putting on the gloves I gave her. I don’t want my stomach to flip when I see her or have this urge for my hands to touch her. That’s not what this fucking is. So I shove every feeling and thought down. It never makes it disappear, but it gives it somewhere to wait.
“Scottie,” I say, and she tips her head up to look at me. “We can get all of this started if you need a break.”
She shakes her head. “You can’t tell me we’re going to bang this all out in one go, and then tell me to fuck off.”
Well, so much for shoving everything down.
I hold up my hands in defense, smirking. “I’m just saying, most people don’t volunteer to keep going when they don’t need to during the hottest hour of the day. Levi and I can handle this part.”
“I’m not most people,” she says, tilting her chin up.
Yeah. No kidding.
“Besides,” she says, stomping to where the circular saw is set up, reaching for it like it’s a dare. “I can handle myself.”
And then she winks.
She fucking winks—and it takes everything in me to keep my hands to myself.
When she reaches for the trigger of the saw. “Whoa. Hold on,” I say, my feet rush to stop her. Not because she’s incapable, but because I don’t trust myself to stay calm if she gets hurt on my watch. “Have you ever used one of these before?”
“I’m a fast learner.”
“And you like your fingers, right?” I lean in close to whisper. “You know, to handle yourself.”
Fuck.
She’s making me feel completely unhinged.
But the glare in her eyes tells me she could cut the wood in half without the saw just by looking at it. “You’re impossible.”
“I’m whatever you need me to be,” I say, holding the saw. My words carry a double meaning. “But I’m also in charge of keeping you from cutting off a limb on national television.”
“It’s my show.”
“Then let’s keep you around for all the episodes, yeah?”
The camera crew chuckles in the background, pretending not to listen. Honestly, we’ve been so lost in the work that I keep forgetting they’re recording the entire day to clip the pieces together for the one-hour episode.
Scottie removes her gloves, and crosses her arms over her chest. “If you want to take charge of cutting the wood, then fine. What can I do?”
