Damn Wright (The Wrights 2)

She made her way to the back door, looking for the house key. Even as she slipped the key into the lock, Emma knew something was different. She opened the door and flicked the kitchen switch. Light flooded the space, and Emma froze.

The kitchen was empty. Completely empty. All the trash was gone. And not only in the kitchen. Emma wandered through the living and dining room, the two baths and four bedrooms. Every ounce of junk was gone except for a few neat boxes lined up against the far wall in the master bedroom. Trash, furniture, everything. Even the disgusting carpet had been pulled up, exposing beautiful hardwood floors.

Dylan.

A melancholy sweetness invaded her heart. Emma leaned her shoulder against the doorjamb of the master bedroom and exhaled. Tension melted from her muscles. This had been a big job. Not only had Dylan followed through on his promise, but he’d done it while dealing with what she knew had to be chronic pain.

She pulled her phone from her pocket and scrolled to one of Dylan’s text messages. She thought about what she wanted to say, then took a deep breath and dialed. As the phone rang, she wandered to a window and looked out into the dark yard.

His voicemail message was professional, his voice deliciously deep. When the recorder clicked on, Emma said, “Hey, it’s me. Emma, I mean. I just saw the house and…God, I can’t even imagine how much work you put into this place. Thank you. I appreciate you following through.”

She disconnected, and her shoulders slumped. She leaned her forehead against the window and let out a deep breath.

“You’re welcome.”

Emma jumped and spun, a hand against her chest. Dylan stood in the doorway, arms crossed, one shoulder on the jamb. “Jesus.” She closed her eyes and exhaled hard. “You know I hate that.”

“I heard you talking. I didn’t want to interrupt.”

Emma looked him up and down. He wore black jeans and a gray Henley, the soft fabric falling over his strong chest, against a flat abdomen. “How do you feel?”

He tipped his head this way and that. “Little stiff. Little sore.”

“Have you been—”

“Stretching. Yes.”

She nodded. Thought about moving into the main part of the house, but he was blocking the door. He’d reach for her if she tried to pass, and she was damn sure she didn’t have what it would take to resist him.

“Just have sex with him and get it over with.” Maizey’s words turned her mind in the wrong direction, and Emma rubbed closed eyes with a moan.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah. Just a rough shift.”

He tilted his head toward the living room. “Come tell me about it. I brought food.”

“Food?”

“I was going to start demolition tonight.”

Her brows shot up. “Demolition?”

“It’s barbecue from Firefly. Plenty enough for both of us. He held his hand out to her. “Come on.”

Her stomach liked the idea of barbecue. She looked at his hand for a long moment before sliding her palm into his. It was warm and strong and calloused, and as she watched his fingers close around hers, she ached to erase the last eight years from her heart.

He pulled her into him and wrapped his arm around her waist. Slid the backs of his fingers across her cheek before running his hand down her hair. “I’ve missed you this week.”

Then he pulled her close and kissed her forehead.

It was all so sweet, it hurt. “I thought you would have given up by now.”

“I’m never giving up,” he murmured against her forehead. “Never again.”

Oh, how easy it was to say the words.

She followed him into the main living area and found a roll of blueprints on the counter and a bunch of tools filling a duffel just outside the kitchen door.