Big Man
Good. Let her dream. Let her be the one to lie awake at night and fantasize, for once.
“You take the bed,” I tell her, hands spread in what I hope comes across as the peace offering I mean it to be. “My truck bed is bigger than your Porsche’s backseat anyway. And I’ve got a quilt in the truck from other times I’ve roughed it.”
She opens her mouth, though whether to agree or decline the favor, I don’t stick around to find out. I dust off my palms, leave her with the firewood, and head outside to make my bed for the night.
4
Sasha Bluebell
The sound of hammering wakes me up. Well, that and the rooster crying away in some far off field. I crack one eyelid at my blinds, then groan and fling an arm over my forehead to shade myself from the dawn light beginning to tint the blinds.
What time is it?
My phone, down to its last cell of battery life since I couldn’t find a plug near the bed in this tiny room—how on earth did Mama sleep without her cell phone beside her?—tells me it’s 5:04am. Not the kind of hour any civilized person should ever greet from this side of sleep.
But the hammering continues, directly overhead and growing louder by the minute. And unless I’m much mistaken, I do catch a whiff of something at least somewhat promising in the air.
Coffee.
I stumble out of the bedroom wiping sleep from my eyes to find a fresh pot of coffee on the stove and a little plate of toast and jam waiting beside it. I munch on the toast while I tie my hair into some semblance of a bun, then pull on a pair of jean shorts and toss on the only tank top I packed. Normally this would be a running shirt, but I’m working with what I’ve got for now. At least I remembered to bring a pair of boots. Granted, they’re leather, but they’re sturdy work boots, not the heels I stupidly put on yesterday morning. I yank them on too, and I’m surprised how good it feels to be wearing sturdy, reliable shoes.
Must be because I’m still feeling grumpy about tripping in the mud yesterday.
That finished, I splash my face clean, then bring my coffee outside to see about the racket.
Grant is on the roof. I lean back to squint at his broad, muscular back—unfortunately clothed today—and watch him lay out another roof tile, then hammer it into place. He’s about halfway done reshingling the roof, to judge from here.
“Need a hand?” I call up.
He turns around to squint down at me with what’s clearly doubt in his eyes.
That only makes me want to prove him wrong the more. He thinks he knows me—spoiled city girl, the town stuck-up bitch. Well, I might be a city girl now, but I was born country. Some things you don’t forget how to do.
Clearly, he doesn’t remember the way we used to clamber up every tree in the woods around here. Or the tree house we built, us and a couple of our neighborhood friends, with our own hands. It’s been a while, but I can still swing a hammer, thank-you-very-much Grant.
I set my coffee down and climb onto the ladder. He watches with progressively wider eyes as I scurry right up it to join him. I don’t even pause when I switch onto the roof and keep my balance easily as I cross it to his side.
To his credit, he doesn’t dismiss me the way some guys might. He just passes me a hammer from the tool bag perched beside him. I accept it, and our hands graze for a moment, his calloused skin rough against mine, like a match striking. It sets my whole body on fire, and I have to turn away for a second to catch my breath, to drive out the sudden images flashing in my mind.
Him shirtless yesterday, glistening with sweat.
His eyes, the way they bore into mine, dark and serious.
How those eyes and that sexy shirtless body of his would look above me in a dark room as he tossed me down onto the single bed in this house and…
I shake myself back into the present.
“You know how to use this thing?” he says.
“Might need a refresher course,” I reply. “It’s been a while.”
He grabs some nails as well, and holds up another roof tile for me. As he demonstrates how to grip the hammer, reaching around me to do so, I nearly lose my grip in distraction. Fuck. He smells amazing. The sweat he’s worked up already makes his scent even more noticeable—something piney with a heady undertone that’s all him, a hint of salt that makes me lick my lips unconsciously. He presses against me, and his hand wraps around mine around the hammer, that rough skin so firm against mine, his hand so strong, and huge. It completely engulfs my hand.