“Okay,” I say, clapping my hands together to snap him out of wherever his head just went. He turns to face me, almost startled by my clap. “We keep the wall. Let’s get these doors off and tackle the plan for the day. Minus your misguided thoughts on cabinet color.”
He laughs, shaking his head as he moves toward one of the cabinet doors. I exhale a sigh of relief that whatever that was moments ago has vanished, as if it never happened. I stare at him—muscles exposed in his white tank top, tool belt hung low on his hips over his dark wash jeans. As much as it pains me to admit it, Tucker is hot, and I can’t even deny that.
My attention drifts before I can stop it. I watch his forearms flex and something warm curls low in my stomach, shooting right between my legs. I shift my weight, suddenly thinking about how small the kitchen feels with him in it.
I hate that my body remembers him even when my mind is trying to forget.
He works effortlessly to remove one of the upper cabinets and then another. Still, I haven’t moved from where I stand in the middle of the kitchen as I watch him work. I know I need to move, I need to do something, but he has me in a trance right now.
“I like it when you watch me work, Scottie,” he says with his back to me. Slowly, he faces me, dusting his hands off with a grin on his face. “But we’d get closer to the leprechauns moving in today if you help me out here.”
“Right,” I say quickly, hurrying to the lower cabinets on the island in the center of the room. “But for the record, I wasn’t watching you.”
“If that’s what you need to tell yourself.”
Reaching down, I grab hold of one of the doors, ignoring the tremor in my hands. I can’t keep letting him throw me off balance like this because everything needs to go perfectly—the show, the house…me.
If everything comes together perfectly, I’m safe.
If I succeed in this project, people will trust me and see me as a professional.
If I do this right, my parents will?—
The cabinet door slips from my grip, and the pointed corner slams down right on top of my foot. “Shit,” I hiss, hopping back.
Tucker is behind me instantly. “Are you okay? Let me see.”
“No, it’s fine,” I protest, sitting down on the ground and waving him off even though the tears sting the edges of my eyes.
Not from pain, but from humiliation.
“Scottie,” he says, his voice so low that even the cameras won’t be able to pick it up. He places his palm on my thigh, and my body burns, in a good way, from the contact. “I’m here. Let me help.”
The softness—God, the softness in his voice disarms me more than the pain.
When I no longer protest, he crouches low, lifting my foot gently into his hand and removing my sneaker with his other hand. His thumb sweeps over the top of my foot. The contact sends a sharp pulse through me that has nothing to do with pain. My breath catches and I clamp my jaw shut, because if I don’t and allow myself to react, I’m not sure I’ll ask him to stop.
My eyes track the way his fingers assess the red mark, then up to his face, where I see worry etched in every feature.
“I don’t think it’s broken, but you’re going to get a pretty nasty bruise.”
“Great,” I mutter. “Maybe the bruise will distract me from my embarrassment.”
He laughs under his breath. A warm, rumbling sound that pulls something buried deep inside of me. He reaches a hand down, and I look from his face to his hand, and then back to him before I accept his help to get off the floor. He lifts me effortlessly, using one hand on my upper arm to brace me.
We stand inches apart. His gaze drops to my mouth, and I feel it like a pull. I tilt my chin up without thinking, drawn forward by something stronger than reason. He inhales sharply and stills, like he’s hit an invisible wall that I’m glad is there. Instead, with his free hand, he reaches up, brushing his fingers through my hair to get it out of my face before his fingers trail down my neck over the pounding pulse.
“You have to stop looking at me like that,” I whisper, letting my eyes flutter closed.
He leans in, lips hovering over the shell of my ear as his voice drops low. “Like what?”
I swallow, before I pull back as our gazes lock again. “Like I’m yours.”
The corner of his mouth ticks up, and that look—fuck, that look. It sends my pulse into overdrive. I want to take back the words, and I feel myself bracing for whatever his next words will be.
“That’s because you are, Scottie.” He winks, bringing his hand under my chin to force me to level with him. He swipes his thumb across my lower lip, and I swear my insides combust on the spot. “You just haven’t caught up yet.”
I swallow hard, stepping back to put some space between us. I cannot let him know the effect his words have on me. I cover my hand over the mic clipped to my shirt. “Jesus, Tucker. Yes, we’re faking this thing between us. But…” I whisper. “Tone it down, Romeo.”
