Page 96 of The Heartbreaker Next Door

His hand stilled.

I waved toward the light fixture. “Fixing everything. Doing everything. Taking care of everything.”

His gaze sharpened slightly.

I forced a teasing smile. “I managed to survive a long time before you showed up with your big toolbox, you know.”

His mouth twitched, but he didn’t take the bait.

“I’m serious, Dean, I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

He slowly lowered the screwdriver.

Shit. I’d been going for casual. Apparently, I’d missed by a mile.

Dean set the tool down. His tone was low, and authoritative as he explained, “I don't want you because you need me, Felicity.”

My breath caught.

I hated how he did that.

How he could take all the messy thoughts I hadn’t said out loud, strip away the jokes and deflections, and somehow land right on the one thing I was actually afraid of.

It was like the man had a direct line into the most vulnerable parts of me.

I swallowed around the sudden lump in my throat and gave a tiny sniff. “Good,” I managed. “Because I don’t.”

“I know.”

He stepped toward me. One step. Then another. Until my back was against the doorframe and he was standing close enough that I had to tip my head back to meet his eyes.

His hand came up, fingertips brushing my cheek. “I want you because I need you.”

Oh.

Oh, hell.

My heart didn't stand a chance.

Dean leaned down and kissed me, slow and sweet, and I curled my fingers into the front of his shirt as every last defense I had dissolved into the floorboards.

Turned out, there were things more dangerous than Dean with a toolbox. Dean with feelings was one of them. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against mine.

I looked down at the key still clutched in my hand. Then back at him. And one thought landed with startling, terrifying certainty. If he'd pulled a different kind of ring out of his pocket tonight, I wouldn't have probably said yes.

I would've definitely said yes.

34

WEAPONIZED MOM GUILT

Dean

ONE YEAR LATER

Inever expected to be sentimental about the events division, but the calendar on Felicity’s office wall was starting to look like a victory lap. She’d taken Lockhart Ranch to the next level. We were booking corporate retreats, birthdays, anniversaries, a recurring “Goat Yoga and Mimosas” the first Sunday of every month. Her name was on every contract, her laugh in every room, her color-coded sticky notes covering the office like wildflowers invading a field.

Today was the second annual Cowboys and Campfires weekend, a Lockhart Ranch tradition that last year had nearly not happened because of me, my limited vision, and lack of trust in people. I was not a fan when she proposed it, but damn, had she proved me wrong.