Total pages in book: 41
Estimated words: 38149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 191(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 127(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 191(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 127(@300wpm)
“They’re not displeasing,” I conceded in a lordly tone.
“Glad to hear it.” Joe snort-laughed. “I didn’t want to bug you, but the basement window is done and painted. Which leaves me with the casing in here. If this isn’t a good time, I can replace the baseboards or remove the wallpaper in the hallway. I think those items were on your short list. Let me know when you—”
“Now is fine,” I intercepted.
“You sure? ’Cause it’s gonna be a little noisy.”
“That’s okay. I’m at a good place to stop. What time is it?”
He pulled at the cuff of his plaid flannel shirt and checked his watch. “Almost three o’clock. Did you sleep at all?”
I smiled at his thoughtful once-over. He hadn’t stayed over last night and left to my own devices, I did what I always did in the wee hours of the morning. I wrote.
“Not much,” I admitted.
“Missed me, eh?” Joe winked before caressing my cheek and moving to the window.
The contrast of cocky and casual affection had me reeling for a beat. I was used to his brash swagger, but tenderness…that was new. I studied his silhouette, jealous of the fabric stretched across his broad shoulders. He was thick and muscular in all the right places. I’d always had a thing for big, strapping men who could lift heavy things. But sweetness…that had never factored into the equation.
I didn’t trust men who were effusively affectionate. They usually wanted something from me. My money, my connections. Joe was working for me, so technically, he wanted my money. He was proud, though. He wasn’t the sort of man to take what he hadn’t earned. And he definitely wasn’t interested in connecting with anyone.
And I felt the same way. I liked my solitude. No…I craved it. Sex was all well and good, but I kept my love life separate from my work.
Not now.
I invited Joe inside every day.
I kept the door cracked open to listen for his footsteps and smiled when he grumpily reminded me that somebody had to water that damn tree and he supposed it had to be him. It had become an excuse to see each other…to begin the dance that inevitably ended with me sucking his cock and fucking him senseless.
In the shower with his hands spread wide on the chipped off-white tile, on his knees in the middle of my bed, over my desk with his jeans around his ankles.
Great. And now I had a hard-on.
I clandestinely adjusted my package and joined him at the window, nodding absently when he explained that he’d crafted the replacement casing in his workshop this morning.
“I didn’t know you had a workshop. Where is it?” I asked.
Joe crouched low, using the spiked end of a tool that looked like a hammer but probably wasn’t, and yanked the warped piece of wood from the wall.
“On Spruce Street. It’s my uncle’s old place. He was the town carpenter-slash-furniture-maker back in the day. I’m more of a glorified handyman, but I learned from the best.”
I leaned against the wall, far enough to be out of the way, but close enough to be in his sphere. The twinkling tree lights reflected in the window as he spoke in a low serious tone about the uncle who’d been like a surrogate father after his dad died. According to Joe, his uncle had taught him everything he knew about woodwork and fine craftsmanship.
Joe grunted as he pulled a second plank free. “Uncle Gary was a perfectionist. He noticed things no one else would—a strip of wood that wasn’t properly sanded or a slight discoloration in the finish. He wouldn’t pay me for crap work, so I learned the hard way to take the time to do shit right.”
“It’s a good policy,” I commented.
“Now I agree, but when I was a teenager, I didn’t always feel that way. I was late to hockey practice more than once because I had to redo a piece he claimed was unusable. He never raised his voice or got in my face…even when I came at him, full of hot air and bluster. Uncle Gary would just shrug and say, ‘Beauty lies in the details, Joey.’ ”
I grinned. “I like that sentiment. I’m pretty sure I’ve used it to describe catching a serial killer in one of my books.”
“You’re a sick fuck, Cam Warren.” Joe huffed, glancing up at me in amusement. “But my uncle lived by that motto. He was meticulous, soft-spoken, and Zen in his approach to work—and life. A nice counterbalance to my mom’s nervous chattering and Coach O’Toole’s rabid screaming on the ice. He’s been gone for a while, but I still miss him.”
“When did he pass away?”
“Five years ago this month. Heart attack.”
Fuck. He’d lost a lot that December. His job, his reputation…his mentor.
“I’m sorry,” I replied lamely. “Sounds like that was a very rough year.”