“Big surprise.” I figured that already.
With another moment of study, he sighs and shuts off the flashlight, then climbs to his feet. “All right, I’ll be back in about an hour.”
“Where are you going?”
“The hardware store. I’ll grab what I need to fix this up for you.”
“You know how to do that?” I ask skeptically.
He smirks. “I’ve done it a few times, yeah. And if I run into problems, I’ve got friends I can call.” He turns to face me, reminding me that he has a good eight inches on me. He always had to stoop when we kissed. Or I’d rise on tiptoes and press myself against his broad chest for support as I reached for his lips.
I swallow hard, the memories of how much I loved his full, soft mouth against mine—of how hot I was for him, of how hard it became to keep our relationship PG-13—flooding back to me with surprising clarity. It seems a betrayal to my seventeen-year-old wounded self to accept his help now. But what other choice do I have?
“Okay,” I finally say, though with no small amount of reluctance.
“See ya in an hour.” His soft chuckle trails him out the door.
Eight
Of all the things I imagined would happen when I moved into my new house, having Shane Beckett sprawled out on my floor was not one of them. But here he is, his broad, muscular body taking up half my kitchen, his head resting in my musty old kitchen cupboard as he bangs and clamps and solders away.
My seat at my two-person table affords me the ideal vantage point over the spectacle and, try as I might to focus on the paint chips laid out in front of me, I can’t keep my attention from veering over to where his black T-shirt has ridden up, exposing the thick pad of muscle across his abdomen and the dark trail of hair that disappears beneath his belt. And, hell, as if that doesn’t force my gaze farther to the sizable bulge inside his jeans, pressing against his zipper. There’s nothing sexy about my sink or my corroded pipes. Shane can’t possibly be hard while doing this, and if that’s not an erection, then … Damn.
I may have gotten the full-frontal, R-rated version of his body last night, but it was at a safe distance. This is not a safe distance. I could almost straddle him from here, my kitchen is so small. What would he do if I climbed on top of him right now?
“Hand me that wrench?” Shane’s deep voice suddenly cuts into my depraved admiration.
I duck my head but it’s too late, he’s caught me ogling his crotch.
I clear my throat as my cheeks burn. “This thing?” I hold up a shiny, long tool.
He reaches out his free hand, smirking. “Yeah, that thing.”
He watches me intently as I lean forward to close the distance, his eyes darting downward. I realize that, yet again, I’m flashing him, thanks to the loose T-shirt I changed into. My hand flies up to press the material to my chest. At least I’m wearing a bra this time.
He refocuses on his task, his Adam’s apple bobbing with a hard swallow. “I have to say, I was surprised to hear you were moving back.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. You just always seemed so intent on getting away. You know, because of your mom.”
Most people in town have heard at least one story about Dottie Reed. The infamous Christmas pageant tale is the most prevalent—it resulted in Mayor Peter Rhodes’s expulsion from office and a lot of judgment for Melissa Rhodes, who chose to stay married to him despite his infidelity. That’s the story Mom’s best known for.
But to Shane, back in the day, I divulged my darkest tales about being her daughter. Things I didn’t disclose to anyone else, mainly about how embarrassed and ashamed I was of her behavior. He knew why I always stayed his hand before it could venture past the buckle of my jeans. He said he understood. He said he didn’t see me as a replica of her, but that he respected my wishes.
“What she does is her business. It has nothing to do with me or who I am as a person.”
“Glad you see it that way.” He offers me a gentle smile. “Do you still talk to anyone from high school?”
“Not really. Jeremy Beagly occasionally. Mainly on Facebook.” Jeremy and his parents lived in the apartment below us. We’d walk to school together sometimes.
“Emo Man? Has he learned to smile yet?”
I roll my eyes at the stupid nickname that stuck. “He’s going to film school in LA now, doing really well.” He stopped dying his hair black and traded in his tight jeans for board shorts. And yes, he does know how to smile, based on the pictures he’s posted. It probably has a lot to do with being away from the assholes who mocked him in high school.