Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 136247 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 681(@200wpm)___ 545(@250wpm)___ 454(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136247 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 681(@200wpm)___ 545(@250wpm)___ 454(@300wpm)
“Can’t be that bad. Many hands, light work, you know the rest.” I chuckle, handing her the plastic bag off the top of the washer with the manual and small parts. “You read me the story of how Sir Faulk slayed the washer dragon while I get this beast out of its box.”
I look away just as she casts me a glance that’s equal parts amused and utterly fed up with my bull.
What can I say?
Screwing around with dumb jokes and teasing glances might be playing with fire, but I’ve always had a pyro edge.
The next few hours are more fun than I’ve had in forever.
With Tory reading me the right mechanical incantations, I’m able to get the machines hooked up and working in no time. Relief lashes my veins as I listen to that beauty purr.
Tory insisted on testing them out ASAP, so I found a couple old jackets due for a cleaning.
No surprise, my helper was just as adamant about assisting me with the porch swing.
So I cave, my way of saying thanks for lending me a hand.
Assembling the swing doesn’t take long. Not with her hands holding it up, standing opposite me while I plant the hooks.
For just a second, my chest grazes her tits. I almost lose my grip with half the blood in my body plunging below my waistline.
Fuck.
It’s a miracle I manage to finish the job without mangling anything, much less Tory noticing the tool with a mind of its own stretching my denim.
As soon as it’s secured from the porch ceiling, I grab us both a beer and we sit down, trying it out because the damn thing just has to be big enough for two.
“So what’s next, Mr. Fix It?” Tory asks shyly, sipping her beer, cozied up against my shoulder.
Far off crickets sing to us while the silver stars twinkle above like tinsel. No other light around except the soft, mellow orange glow of the porch lamp.
It feels downright romantic, and that’s the problem.
“Next?” Ignoring the flash of devouring her mouth, then picking her up and carrying her upstairs to my bed, I take a long swig off my longneck bottle.
“We could start painting the kitchen cupboards, couldn’t we?” she muses, elbowing me playfully in the side.
I lean back, shaking my head at her as much as I’m reprimanding my own dark thoughts.
“Not tonight, girl. We’re coming up on midnight. Gotta sleep sometime.”
“Aw, you’re just as much a night owl as I am.” She takes a quick sip off her beer. “Why not, Quinn? You have two more hands for free.”
Oof. You know it’s fucking bad when just hearing about her hands sets me off.
I can’t stop thinking about exactly where I’d love to put them to work, and it’s got nothing to do with this old house.
Pushing off the floor with one foot, I make the swing move, staring down at my beer. “Trouble is, that’s an all-day job, and you’ve already helped plenty for one night.”
“I like painting, and I’m pretty good at it,” she offers.
“Really? What have you painted?”
“My entire room back home.” She laughs. “It took me forever to finish it because of my dance schedule. It drove Mother crazy having the walls half-finished for over a month. She likes everything just so.” Leaning back, she takes another fast drink of her beer. “Perfectionist to the end. Maybe we’re not so different that way...”
I sense there’s more behind her words.
Almost like she’s been molded in her ma’s perfectionist image when she doesn’t want to be.
I want to ask, but I’m already in too deep.
Working with Tory all evening has been a bizarre torture. A tease, a living memory, and a guilt trip in one.
She smells too good.
She’s too damn delectable.
She’s sexy without even trying to be.
Everything about her puts a fire in my balls like nothing else.
I’m beginning to wonder if it’s truly her or just the unholy place my brain has gone, stuck on dirty thoughts about a friend I can’t have.
I’m not an animal. I can’t betray her that way. And the longer she’s around, the more we touch, the less space there is between us...I’m worried I’ll lose control. Take her in ways I shouldn’t, and I’ll fuck things up without meaning to.
Hiding a sigh, I down my beer and stand. “Better get you home before Granny shows up on her bike looking for you, Peach.”
“Oh, she’s not going to come looking for me here.” She rolls her eyes.
“Probably not, but I don’t want to worry her or piss off Granny Coffey. She’s a pistol in this town.” I hold out a hand. “Come on. Time to go.”
A heavy frown pulls at her face, but finally, she sticks out her fingers.
I take them to help her up.
The moment she lays her hand in mine, frantic heat races up my arm.