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Eventually I shake myself out of it and climb back onto the counter. “Okay, fan hog. Move.”
Sumner lowers the glass and looks at me over the rim. “I thought we were sharing.”
“You’re six-three. There’s nothing left to share when you stand directly in front of it.”
His mouth twitches. “Well, we can’t have that.”
He sets the cup beside me, still full of melting ice, then shifts the fan enough that the air blows across both of us.
Except now he’s standing between my knees.
Which is significantly worse for my body temperature.
A drop of sweat rolls down his temple, tracing a path over the sharp lines of his face before disappearing into the hollow of his throat. Is it weird that I want to lick it? My mouth actually waters.
Then he grabs the hem of his soaked T-shirt and yanks it up to wipe his face.
Sweet baby Jesus. Every single coherent thought I have completely poofs out of my head. The man has abs for days, glistening with sweat, with that deep V of muscle disappearing right into the heavy leather of his tool belt. It's a miracle I don't slide right off the counter as I stare, hypnotized by the flex of his stomach.
He drops the shirt, leaving a streak of dust across his cheek. "I'm trying to get your AC running so you don't have to sleep in an oven tonight," he says, blowing out a rough exhale. "Work with me here."
"You brought this on yourself," I argue, dragging the back of my hand across my collarbone to wipe away a trickle of my own sweat.
I know I'm being a brat, but pushing his buttons is too much fun. I'm feeling ornery, and a month's worth of unreleased sexual frustration is making me want to pick a fight just to get a reaction out of him.
“I was going to hire a professional,” I tell him, lifting my chin. “You could be all cuddled up with Colston right now in his nice air-conditioned condo.”
“I’m faster than a professional, and I don’t charge an after-hours emergency fee.” He slides the wrench into one of the leather loops on his belt.
He also ignores my Colston comment.
“Still could’ve saved yourself all this.” I gesture at his sweat-soaked shirt, then immediately regret drawing my own attention back to it because holy abs.
Sumner catches me staring.
His mouth tips up at one corner as he sets one hand on the counter beside my hip. He’s already standing between my knees so we can both get some of the fan, but suddenly I’m a lot less interested in the air blowing across my sweaty skin.
Because now he’s looking at me.
Really looking.
And fuck me, he knows.
Between thirsting over him drinking ice water, staring at his stomach every time his shirt rides up, and wondering what sweat tastes like straight off his skin, there’s no hiding that I want to jump his bones.
Um, bone?
Anyway, Sumner leans in a little closer, his other hand coming down beside my opposite hip. He still doesn’t crowd me all the way or put his hands on me, but there’s barely any space left between us.
The fan pushes damp strands of hair across my cheek. His shirt is plastered to his chest. The glass of half-melted ice sits beside my thigh.
And all I can think about is putting my hands on him—or him putting his hands on me.
He shifts his weight, and one of his hands leaves the counter. His rough thumb brushes the bare skin on the outside of my thigh, slow enough that every nerve ending in my body lights up.
A knowing smirk tips the corner of his mouth.
“You want something?” His gaze drops to my mouth before dragging back up to meet my eyes. “You know all you have to do is ask.”
