Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 116708 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 584(@200wpm)___ 467(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116708 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 584(@200wpm)___ 467(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
His grip tightened and he leaned in across the table. “Let me help you with this place.”
I shook my head, the spell almost broken. “No. I didn’t tell you any of that to garner sympathy. You asked what I’d been up to. Putting my life back together, one step at a time, was the answer.”
His frustrated breath blew across my face, but his hand still held tight to mine. “Why won’t you let me help you?”
I couldn’t properly explain it to him. I didn’t want to. So I went with the abridged version. “I don’t like owing people.”
His brow furrowed as he scoffed, “I’m not a loan shark. No money involved. I’m just offering my services.”
My stomach dipped at his words, although the services he was offering were probably not the ones that flashed through my mind. I wiggled my hand free from his and pushed to my feet, my tired legs protesting the move almost as loudly as my mind. “What services are you offering exactly?”
He slid out of the booth and wandered to the water saw. “For starters, I can finish this tile job. Hell”—he bent over and picked up a scrap from my pile of misfit ceramic—“I could probably salvage half of these.”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “I hate to break it to you, but it’s not as easy as it looks.”
“Don’t you remember when I redid Grandpa Jack’s floor in his fishing cabin? He said it looked so good he insisted I pull up the hardwood in Aunt Shelly’s house and replace them with his exact same tile.”
I groaned at the memory. “Those wood floors were gorgeous. I have no idea how he convinced her to rip them out.”
“They were rotting. Gorgeous wasn’t going to keep her from falling through to the basement and breaking a hip. Look, when you live in a house as old as ours, everything has to be fixed or replaced at least twice.”
I jolted when he called it our house.
It had been our house. After his mom passed away, he’d inherited it, but we’d been living there for years even before that. We’d had grand plans of raising our family in that house. Growing old in that house. Spending a lifetime together in that house.
Instead, uniformed military members had shown up to my door in that house, rocking my entire world.
I’d shed more tears than I’d thought a human could ever produce in that house.
My husband had told me he wanted a divorce in that house.
I had been gutted and forced to give up on my soul mate inside that house.
There hadn’t been our anything in almost two decades, but especially not that house.
I didn’t have the chance to correct him before he walked over, stopping directly in front of me.
“I’m not trying to rescue you. I know you can do this on your own and it will turn out absolutely incredible. But you mentioned you’re running behind schedule to open on time, and I’m offering free labor. Nothing more.” His body hovered so close to mine that it made a chill roll down my spine. His dark eyes held me hostage as I considered his offer—and how it would feel to press my lips to his.
“It’s going to take more than an hour on Wednesdays to get this place done on time.”
He smiled, and sweet Jesus, he swayed even closer. “It’s Thursday, Gwen. And I’ve got all night.”
I had so many questions.
What had suddenly changed, allowing him to venture out of his safe haven?
Was it only Wednesdays and Thursdays now?
Could he go other places too?
But most of all, why the hell was he so damn close, and why did I want him even closer?
“Okay,” I breathed, afraid to say more.
“Okay?”
I took a small step back, desperately needing to clear my head. “Yeah. I’m not in any position to turn down free labor. But just know that you helping does not obligate me to help you move, or do yard work, or shovel snow in the winter. You are volunteering and I’m not accepting it as much as just not kicking you out.”
A lazy smile split his lips, victory dancing in his eyes. “That seems fair.”
“All right, then. Where do you want to start?”
For the next several hours, we worked side by side. He spread the old newspapers, which we noted were from two thousand ten, over the windows while I handed him pieces of tape and made sure to point out all the areas that might need more adhesive. Once he was satisfied that Taggart wouldn’t be able to take any more pictures, we moved on to the floors.
He expertly cut the tiles on the first try while I tried not to stare as tattoos danced over his muscles.
As the day went on, we talked about nothing in particular. I filled him in on my farm-fresh, family-dining vision of The Rosewood, and he begged me to add my “world famous” tortellini ranch salad to the menu. It was only world famous to him, but it felt good that he’d remembered. I’d teased him when I found out he still had his old motorcycle in his garage, despite the fact that he no longer had a valid driver’s license. And then we fell awkwardly silent when he reminded me that Nathanial had helped him build it and that was the only reason he kept it.