“You can measure and mark the boards for me.”
I reach into my tool belt and pull out the measuring tape. I step closer and place it directly in her hand. Our fingers brush—barely. It’s enough that I feel the warmth of her skin before she curls her fingers around the tape.
She looks down at it, then back at me. “You can’t be serious.”
“Measurements are the backbone of construction,” I say, grinning as I crouch down to organize everything where I need it to go.
What I don’t say is that this puts her right here with me.
I want to feel her in my space, distracting me up close and not far away.
“Please,” she scoffs, rolling her eyes before leaning forward as if taunting me. “You just don’t want me using power tools because you’re afraid I’ll outshine you.”
She doesn’t back away, and I know I have to look away before instinct takes over and I start memorizing every detail of her, but I can’t do it. I trail her body—the line of her neck and the way one side of her overalls falls over her shoulder. I can’t fucking look away.
“You caught me,” I deadpan, trying to keep my voice even. “Your skills deeply threaten me.”
She smiles, and for a second it doesn’t feel like teasing.
It feels…easy.
We fall into a rhythm.
She measures. I cut.
Every time she leans over a board, hair slipping loose from her messy bun, I have to remind myself to look anywhere else. I have to remind myself not to reach for her and brush the strands away from her beautiful eyes.
I’m literally going insane.
And to think, this was my fucking idea to keep her close to me.
What’s driving me crazy the most isn’t the heat or the long day we’ve already had. Because I’m used to this work day in and day out. But it’s her. She’s a mess of sweat and sawdust, and somehow she’s still trying to keep that perfect image together for the cameras. Every time I glance up in her direction, she’s checking her reflection in her phone camera or making sure her mic is sitting just right, like if she slips for even a second, the world will see something she doesn’t want them to.
And the worst part?
I get it.
I see it.
“So how long have you been doing this?”
She glances up. “Construction?”
“No. I mean, yes. All of it. Renovating things. The show.” I spread out my arms to showcase the yard around us. “All of this.”
She pauses, as if trying to think of what to say, clocking the camera aimed in our direction before straightening her spine. “I can’t remember when I first discovered my love for it. But I remember it started when I found an old dresser on the side of the road and wanted to refurbish it for my bedroom. After that, I wanted to redo my whole room to match. I gutted the entire thing and learned everything from the internet. My dad thought it was the greatest room in the house.” She smiles down at the memory, looking down at the wood and measuring tape in her hands. “He let me do more rooms in the house. I sharedonebefore-and-after picture on my private social media account and it went crazy with people loving it. He had this idea that I should start my own DIY design page, and I ended up doing our entire house.”
I nod, smiling, trying to focus on the work in front of me.
But all I’m registering is the passion in her voice for what she does.
“I didn’t really have a niche at the time. It was a mix of design work and projects. I wanted to do it all,” she emphasizes with a bright smile, like she’s truly talking about something she loves. “It took off like crazy. I started getting some brand deals with it, too. Turns out I liked the challenge of making something feel like home when it wasn’t yet.”
“What made you stick with it?” I ask, adjusting the saw blade even though it doesn’t need it.
“I like proving people wrong.” She sighs, as if it hits too close to home for her. “And I like fixing things people give up on.”
I turn to face her. She’s still looking down at the boards.
