Page 3

It’s been a long time since I’ve seen Dillon. I’ve avoided him for two years, four months, and three days.

But who’s counting?

Just as I’m climbing out of my car, the door to the cabin bangs open and the man himself comes out. His olive skin is deeply tanned and covered in a sheen of sweat. I can see this clearly because his shirt is tucked into the back pocket of his worn-out jeans. His torso is chiseled, and I would pay a good fortune to run my fingers over his abs just once.

Fuck. The man is as fine as ever.

I hate him.

I slam the door closed, and he jerks his head up, a sandy lock of thick hair falling over his forehead. I stand frozen, watching as he drops the stack of wood on the porch and stands straight. His eyes do a cursory sweep down my body and back to my face.

His eyes narrow.

My eyes narrow.

My lips quirk.

His do not.

I roll my eyes and stomp across the dying patches of grass and shitty pathway to the porch steps. He looks like a Greek god up there. A stupid, beautiful specimen.

“Dillon,” I greet, placing my hands on my hips when I get to the top of the steps and look around with a huff. Warren said a few weeks of work. There is too much shit and supplies around for a few weeks of part time work.

The asshole tricked me.

“Emerson,” Dillon responds after several quiet moments, and I look back at him. He steps forward to fiddle with the fringe on my slightly cropped shirt, and I slap his hand away.

“What are you wearing?” he asks in that way of his. Confused, yes, but not judgmental. Like a giant, curious puppy. Giant. Very, very large. I have to look way up to see his face.

“Clothes, Dilly. Something that your kind must not have discovered yet. Is that a nipple ring?” I gawk at his nipples and yep. There is a silver bar through the left one.

“It was a dare,” he grumbles. But when I look up at his face again, he’s looking at my body. Well, more likely the clothes covering my body.

I wasn’t lying to Warren—I don’t own sweatpants or athletic shorts. So, I wore linen wide-legged pants and a fringed black crop-top. My long brown hair is perfectly blown out under a dark tan wide-brimmed hat. My signature smokey liner is on, my lashes are lightly mascaraed, and my facial hair is perfectly maintained. I have a chain in my ear and a gold hoop in my nose, and I know I look fucking good. I know I do. But if there has ever been someone who makes me second-guess myself, it’s Dillon.

Dillon and his curious looks and his shameless questions.

“Is that a belly ring?” he asks.

“What wonderful observation skills you have, babe. Can we move on?”

“Does this mean you’re done avoiding me?”

At that, my face screws up in disbelief. “You cannot seriously be so dumb.”

I push past the big oaf with a huff and pull open the door. Yep. Warren, you sneaky fucker.

This place is bare bones. Like, not a wall inside, just beams and studs. I tap my fingers on my crossed arms and count to ten. Breathe in through the nose and out through the mouth. Repeatedly.

I close my eyes when the door opens behind me, so I don’t lash out my frustrations on Dillon. He’s a big, muscled moron but he doesn’t deserve my anger. That’s for my brother. My poor, heartbroken brother.

As much as I’d love to call him and yell, he’s hurting enough. So instead, I breathe in and exhale loudly.

“Are you okay?” Dillon asks, and I ignore the humor in his voice.

“Warren said a few weeks of work left.” I gesture to the cabin and slap my hands against my thighs. “This…this is more than that. There aren’t even walls up.”

He walks by me and shrugs. “It won’t be that way long.” I flip off his perfect back and try not to drool when the muscles flex and ripple with his movements.