“David?” I call.
“Up here, Mom!”
I weave through the kitchen up the stairs, following the sound of clanking and cursing until I find David in the bathroom attached to my bedroom. He’s standing on a small stepstool in the shower, toying with the shower head.
And Greg is there, too, stretched out on his back under the sink cabinet.
Shirtless.
My heart stops in my chest at the sight, at how thick and lean his muscles are, the abs and the obliques flexing and stretching as he works on whatever the hell he’s doing under my sink.
I blink, trying to peel my eyes away, but all I can do is follow the lines down, down, down, farther and farther, until I’m staring at the dent of his skin that makes a V, the apex of it disappearing somewhere under the hem of his briefs — which I can see clear as day right above his jeans.
Calvin Klein.
Of fucking course.
David drops something and it clangs loud against the shower floor, knocking me out of my daze as he curses and gets off the stepstool long enough to retrieve it.
“What are you doing?” I finally ask now that I have my wits about me. Sort of, anyway.
My eyes flick to Greg’s waistline again, but I pull them away quickly.
“I’m installing a new showerhead,” David answers easily. “That old one was a leaky drip, at best. And Greg is working on clearing out the aerator, so you have better water pressure with the sink. I know you’ve been complaining about that.”
Greg scuttles out enough so that he can look at me, and the moment his eyes lock on mine, my cheeks flush with a furious heat.
I clear my throat, attention back on my son. “I wish you would have told me you were coming over.”
David laughs a little at that. “I think what you meant to say was, thank you, son, that is so kind of you!”
I roll my eyes, but it does earn him a little grin. “Thank you, son. That is so kind of you. But next time, a little warning, please?”
He just smiles and gets back to what he was doing.
“I’ll make us some dinner,” I say, not knowing what to do now but knowing that I, at the very least, needed to get away from shirtless Greg. “Goulash sound good?”
Greg groans, peeking out from under the sink again. “I haven’t had that in ages.”
Something tingles inside my chest, making me smile, but I quickly turn and head for the kitchen. “Alright, then. Goulash it is. You boys don’t work too hard.”
Yes. Boys. Let’s drive that point home.
I make a pit stop in my bedroom, grabbing a pair of leggings and an oversized t-shirt to change into. I use the guest bath to do so, and then I pop back downstairs, turn on one of my playlists on the kitchen speaker, and start on dinner.
I long for a glass of wine, almost whimpering when I realize I still shouldn’t have one.
I pour a tall glass of cold water, instead, and sing along to my playlist as I dice onions and tomatoes and peppers and garlic, tossing it all in the skillet before adding the meat to brown. I add the dry pasta next, along with all the seasonings, and then bring it to a simmer.
I’m thankful for the task, for something to do to keep my mind off the fact that Greg is here. Shirtless. But my distraction is cut short when David slips through the kitchen, phone to his ear, and mouths to me it’s Julia before dipping out the sliding glass door to the back patio.
Greg is there the next second, wiping his forehead with a rag before hanging it over his shoulder and leaning his palms on the small kitchen island counter, his eyes on me.
I gulp down a large drink of water, turning back to the stove. “Get it all done?”
“We did. You want to feel the difference?”
I feel the difference, alright.
“I trust you,” I say quickly, replacing the lid on the goulash. If I mess with it too much, it won’t cook the way it needs to. So, with nothing else to keep my focus on, I turn back to Greg. “Thanks for helping him. I’m sure you have more important things to do. But if he asks you again, feel free to decline. Regardless of how he makes it seem, I’m not helpless.”
“I know that,” Greg says, standing tall again. “I’ve known that for years.”
His eyes hold mine, and I swallow, but can’t tear my gaze away.
Greg glances out back before rounding the island, closing the distance between us. “Amanda, I’m sorry about Friday. I…” His lips press together in a tight line, like he doesn’t want to apologize at all. “I crossed a line.”
I just nod, keeping my eyes on his and away from his torso.