Page 31 of The Heartbreaker Next Door

I wondered what it would be like if he let himself use more. Suppose he let someone in, past the point of utility. The office scene from my dreams popped into my mind’s eye, and I quickly shook my head like Mav’s Etch A Sketch, hoping to erase the erotic imagery.

With as much effort as I possessed, I threw myself into installing the next spindle, only to realize too late that I’d installed it incorrectly. Before I could correct it, Dean was beside me, taking the rail from my hands.

“Try it like this,” he said, guiding my hand to the right angle. His skin was rough from years of manual work, and when his fingers closed around mine, he squeezed just enough to steady the tool but not enough to make me feel incompetent.

I tried not to react, but my pulse was a dead giveaway.

“Thanks,” I said, way too breathy.

He let go, and our hands brushed. “No problem.”

Wanting to change the subject, I asked, “What would you be doing today if you weren’t on this home renovation rescue?”

“Payroll, expense reports, end-of-month reconciliations.”

“Riveting,” I stated flatly.

He smirked. “You asked.”

I considered him for a moment, wondering if he’d ever had a day in his life that wasn’t dictated by responsibility. “You know, it’s okay to take a break sometimes.”

He looked at me, very directly, like he was considering whether or not to let me in on a tightly held secret. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

The words were simple, but they hit me low in the gut. Dean Lockhart did not waste his time, and he was choosing to spend it here with me.

The thought was too big to handle just then, so I pivoted. “Well, you’re contractually forbidden from doing any more porch work until Maverick can inspect it. He takes his role as safety captain very seriously.”

Dean’s eyes, usually so guarded, warmed. “He’s a good kid.”

“He really is,” I agreed. “Thanks for the riding lesson last week. He hasn’t stopped talking about it.”

That was the understatement of the century. After the horse riding lesson, Maverick spent the next three days talking of nothing else. He couldn’t wait to have another one.

He shrugged, looking almost shy. “He’s a natural.”

A long moment passed between us, full of things that felt precarious and half-built, like the house itself.

“Well, you are officially off duty,” I said, letting him off the hook so he could leave and get on with his life. “I’m working on interior organization and cosmetic upgrades today, which does not need any supervision.”

He didn’t take the out. Instead, he followed me inside and got right down to work.

My intention had been to distract myself—maybe reorganize the spice rack or try again to caulk the drafty window in the kitchen—but the gravitational pull of that man was a force of nature, strong enough to caused me to turn my attention to sorting through a tangle of extension cords.

He’d shown up not long after sunrise and by eight that morning he’d already swapped out two smoke detectors, fixed the toilet in the guest bath, and was now working on the so-called hallway-of-doom—a name Maverick coined last week because it was so dark. I hadn’t asked for help. I certainly hadn’t expected Dean to take an emotional inventory of our home and start fixing things. He just had a quiet way of scanning a situation and slotting himself into the nearest gap, unobtrusive and efficient.

Dean was standing on a ladder, arm extended above his head as he anchored the new light to the cracked plaster. His T-shirt rode up just high enough to tease a sliver of skin, and it took considerable willpower not to reach out and trace the chiseled line of his waist. Instead, I bent down and tugged on a stubborn knot in the extension cord, gritting my teeth and willing myself to focus on literally anything else.

“You okay down there?” he called, not looking away from his task.

“Just wrestling the serpents of the underworld,” I replied, flourishing the cords for dramatic effect.

He grinned, which I considered a win. Getting a smile out of Dean Lockhart felt like climbing Everest. Each time it was as if I’d conquered the impossible. Every minute I spent in his presence caused my No Men Policy to experience structural damage. I had good reasons for my rules, but they seemed to fade into insignificance next to the sheer competence he radiated. The man had an answer for every household crisis, a tool for every malfunction, and a sort of low-key charm that would have been easy to miss if you weren’t paying close attention.

I was paying all the attention.

The new light fixture snapped into place with a satisfying click, and Dean stepped down, landing with a heavy thud that reverberated through the floorboards and, if I was being honest, through my ribcage.

He looked at me, eyebrow arched. “That should do it. You might want to avoid slamming any doors nearby, though.”