Rough Country (Tannen Boys 3)

“Tell me where I’m going with this thing,” Bobby says, lifting the heavy concrete edging piece and walking through Unc’s yard.

“Right here for the first one,” I tell him, pointing. I turned them around when I was here yesterday, but some of them are pretty crumbled, and I figured I’d take advantage of Unc being gone and Bobby having more muscles than I do to get the new pieces in place.

He quickly moves it into position, wiggling it back and forth to plant it solidly in the dirt.

“Perfect. Four more before we get busted!”

He glares at me, that brow telling me ‘I told you so’ loud and clear. I know he’s right, and this is risky. But it’s worth it if Unc’s house is well-kept. The flower bed edging is the first of two jobs and the least serious thing I’m hoping Bobby can help with.

He makes quick work of it, the new concrete in place in minutes. “Hmm. It looks too new,” I decide and get down on my knees in the yard. Scooping up some dirt from around the bushes, I rub it into the new pieces to blend them in with the old ones.

Leaning up against the bed of his truck, Bobby laughs. “What are you doing now?”

“What’s it look like?”

I glance over my shoulder and catch him looking at my butt, not really seeming to care at all what I’m doing other than kneeling with my ass in the air.

“Making me lose my fucking mind.” It’s a statement, not a question at all. Somewhere deep inside, the tiniest vixen roars to life, and I wiggle my hips a bit, teasing and seducing him. He groans and plainly reaches down to adjust himself in his jeans, keeping eye contact with me the whole time. “Now what?”

“Hammer. Nail.”

He chokes on his tongue. “What?”

I’m the one grinning cockily now. “We need to fix the steps. What did you think I was talking about?” I ask innocently.

But he’s way better at this game than I am. “Me hammering away at you, nailing you to the bed, fucking you hard, kissing you soft, and touching every inch of your skin with my tongue.”

“Oh.” The lamest comeback in the history of comebacks, but it’s all I’ve got because my brain is busy painting mental images in vivid, photographic detail.

He presses his lips together, but I can see he’s fighting a smile as he grabs the hammer from the toolbox I asked him to bring and the box of nails we bought at the hardware store when we picked up the concrete edging pieces.

“Right here.” I point at the stair edge, where the nails are working their way loose, making the few steps an unsteady tripping hazard.

He hammers a few nails in, making the stair treads solid and safe. I grab the vinegar I brought from home and dab a bit on the nails.

“What’re you doing?” Bobby’s nose is crinkled at the smell.

“Vinegar makes them rust quickly. That way, they’ll blend in and not look shiny and new and therefore noticeable.”

Bobby seems surprised by how far I’m going to do this without Unc realizing I’ve done a thing, but that’s key to the plan of his not feeling like I’m overstepping.

“The side’s gonna need a few screws. Let me grab those and a screwdriver.” He digs around in the toolbox again and comes up with a long-shanked screwdriver. “This might be a bit much, but it’ll do the trick.”

He’s screwing in the last screw when the door opens and Unc comes out, grumpier than a bear whose hibernation has been disturbed way too early.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he demands. His eyes are bright and sharp today, no hint of glassiness or clouding. Nope, just pure fury there.

“Uh, hey, Unc. I thought you were going fishing with Doc today?” I say calmly, willing him to calm down too because we are so busted.

“Did. Got tired so I came home to take a nap and got woken up by some fool hammerin’ away on my porch. What the fuck are you doing?” he repeats, getting louder.

Bobby steps forward, putting himself between me and Unc’s ire, trying to ease the situation. “No big deal, Hank. No need to yell at Willow. She just asked me to fix up these steps so they don’t walk away from the house.”

He gestures with the screwdriver, and before I know what’s happening, Unc grabs the screwdriver out of Bobby’s hand by the flathead end and chunks it into the yard, where it lands blade down in the dirt, buried to the handle.

“Don’t need no help,” he hollers, pointing at Bobby in accusation. Pointing to his own chest, he barks, “I can do it myself.”

Behind me, I’m sure eyes are peeking out of every window with how loud Unc’s being. I’d expected him to be mad if he found out I was helping like this. That’s why I was trying to be sneaky about it, but I hadn’t expected anything close to . . . this.