by Lacey Black
“Sure, sure. I can help,” Felicity sasses.
“You are very good at helping. I mean, look how well you helped Joey with his zipper in the bathroom of the bar that one time.”
And that’s my cue.
Felicity is just getting ready to open her mouth, probably to spit off something mean and nasty, when I approach the counter. “I think I can take it from here,” I announce, grabbing the slip of paper from Felicity’s hand. “Why don’t you go finish stocking the stains.” It’s not a question.
Felicity’s eyes narrow as she continues to stare at Harper, who just smiles sweetly back. “Fine,” my employee grumbles, flipping her hair over her shoulder again and stalking off to the wall I just left.
“Hey,” I say, offering her a small smile. She’s fucking gorgeous in her black capri pants and light blue tank top. There’s bunching around the neck that falls down her chest, settling between her magnificent boobs. My eyes can’t help but drink her in.
“Hi.”
That familiar tension is back, so I get to work keying in the material she’s purchasing. When I get to two-by-fours and plywood, I glance her way. She gives me a small smile and shrugs. “Doghouse.”
“You’re building a doghouse?”
“Yep,” she replies when I hand her the piece of paper. “I’m not sure which screws would work best, so go ahead and pick some out for me. The lumber I’d like to be green-treated, since it’s going to be outside year-round.”
Still, I stare. “You’re building a doghouse?” I ask again, stupidly.
Harper rolls her eyes. “Yes, dummy, I think we’ve already established that.”
I choose to keep my mouth shut, not wanting to offend her with something sexist, but to be honest with you, we rarely get female customers in here who are building something themselves. Usually, they’re stopping by for supplies for their husband. Something about Harper building anything with her hands has me all sorts of excited. It’s something I’d love to see.
“Wait here,” I tell her as I head over and pick out a box of screws and the sandpaper she needs. I return to the front, aware Felicity is hovering very close, and ask, “Do you need it delivered?”
“No, I have Jensen’s truck. Can you just load it up now?”
“I can,” I tell her, printing off her material list. She pulls out her debit card, which I immediately swipe to complete her transaction. “Pull down the alley and stop under the south overhang. I’ll meet you back there.”
Harper grabs her papers and heads out the front door. I don’t hang around long enough for Felicity to rejoin me at the counter. I holler I’m heading back to load lumber, and make a beeline for the back door.
The sun is bright in the late-July sky, instantly warming my skin. I pull four green-treated two-by-fours from the pile, check them to make sure they’re straight, and set them aside. Jensen’s big truck pulls down the alley, stopping exactly where I instructed her to park. She hops out of the dirty work truck, a weirdly seductive contradiction in her work attire. As much as I try to ignore her appearance, my eyes have a mind of their own and drink her in. Her ass looks amazing in those black capris.
“Stop staring, perv,” she sasses, rolling her eyes for good measure.
I don’t reply, instead choosing just to chuckle as I head over to the plywood. She puts the tailgate down as I throw the first piece over my shoulder and meet her back at the truck. I set it down in the bed, careful to slide it in without hitting the toolbox. It only takes me a few minutes before I have all four sheets loaded in the truck. Then, I head for the two-by-fours I set aside. Picking all four up and throwing them over my shoulder I head for the truck bed, only to find two eyes following me everywhere I go. Except those eyes are focused on my arms.
Just before I move them off my shoulder to slip them into the bed, I say, “Stop staring, perv.”
Harper crosses her arms, her eyes narrowing. “I wasn’t. I was checking out the boards to make sure you were giving me straight ones.”
“Sure you were,” I tease, drawing out the first word a little too long. “You were watching my arms. Admit it.”
Her chin rises. “I will do no such thing.”
“Suit yourself,” I state, carefully closing the tailgate. “You’re all set.”
“Thank you.” It seems almost painful for her to say those words.
“No problem.”
Then, we’re surrounded by awkward silence. Her eyes don’t meet mine as she fidgets with her hands, kicking at small rocks in the alley.
“So, you’re building a doghouse this weekend,” I state, not because I need to verify this information, but because I’m not really ready for her to leave and I’m trying to draw out our time together.
Again, she rolls her eyes. “Seriously?”
“Is Jensen helping?”
“Why would Jensen need to help? Because I’m a woman, I can’t build a doghouse?”
“I never said that. Some of these boards are heavy, and I just wanted to see if you needed any help.”
“I don’t need any help,” she replies quickly, heading toward the truck cab. “But if it would make you feel better, I’m going to start tomorrow afternoon after I close the shop. Stop by so you can see how a real woman builds something.”
My dick twitches.
“Maybe I will.”
“Fine!” she yells, climbing up into the cab and firing the engine. Before she pulls out, she rolls down the window. “Bring the beer. If you’re going to sit around and watch me work, the least you could do is buy me a few drinks.”
Before I can reply, she rolls up the window and drives out of the alley. I watch until she rounds the corner, disappearing completely from sight. With a smile on my face and a renewed spirit, I head back into the store to finish out the day. Yeah, I may be working on a Saturday, but at least I have something to look forward to after. And if there’s anything to look forward to, it’s Harper Grayson with power tools.
I just hope she doesn’t try to kill me with one.
Chapter Eleven
Harper
Work was crazy busy, right up until the shop closed at two. It took me an extra fifteen minutes to get everything shut down, and even though many of the displays could use a refresh and reorganize, it’ll have to wait until Monday. Right now, I have a date with a circular saw and my drill.
As soon as I get home, I throw on a pair of old jeans, a blue tank top, and pair of old Ariat boots from my cowgirl days. It’s hotter than Satan’s balls outside, but fortunately, there’s enough of a breeze off the ocean that makes it somewhat bearable. Snuggles is out with me, running puppy circles around my legs until she takes her chew toy and parks it under the tree. I already moved her water bowl and a bit of food there, so she’ll be set for the next few hours while I work.
Jensen stopped by after work last night to help unload his truck and trade vehicles. He set up the sawhorses and got all of my materials in order. He offered to come back by this afternoon to help with Max, but I knew they already had plans to attend a baseball game. There’s no need for them to miss it when I’m perfectly capable of building a doghouse. I have a rough idea of how I’m going to build it in my mind, and a sketch on a piece of notebook paper. Jensen is a visual person, so when he stopped by, he doodled while I told him my ideas. Together, we finalized a pretty kick-ass doghouse for my baby girl.
I glance one more time to where she’s snoozing under the tree, and get the first piece of plywood positioned on the sawhorses. Before I know it, I have my cut lines chalked out and I’m ready to go.
When I was younger, Dad used to build things. Bookshelves, coffee and end tables, nightstands. Little things like that, and then he’d sell them at the local craft shows. Mom was always in the kitchen with Marissa, and so Jensen and I would find ourselves in the garage with Dad. Samuel was often studying, rarely finding the time to help cut, screw, and stain whatever project Dad was working on. Not me. I loved it. He’s the one who taught me everything
I know and gave me the confidence to build just about anything I want.
Those storage shelves and display cases at Kiss Me Goodnight?
Built those myself.
Sure, most people look at me, standing five foot ten, weighing barely one hundred and thirty pounds, and wearing perfectly contoured makeup, and think I’m just a pretty face. I’m the girl who went to New York to model. The one who starred in a toothpaste commercial on national television. But I’m more than that, dammit. Yes, I may sell sexy panties and lingerie, but I can also cut just about anything with a jigsaw and figure difficult measurements in my head.
I’m versatile like that.
Two sides in and Snuggles starts to bark. Glancing up, I see her heading to the fence gate, tail wagging in joy. Latham approaches the gate, throws open the latch, and enters the yard like he owns the freaking place. Jerk. My dog doesn’t seem to mind the stranger in her yard. Instead of eating him (the way I had hoped), she runs circles around his legs, stands on her back legs, and begs to be petted.
“Traitor,” I grumble, grabbing a second sheet of plywood from the stack and jockeying it on the sawhorses.
“Need help?” Latham asks, setting his cooler down on the ground and approaching where I work.
“No.” I don’t mean it to come out snippy, but it does.
“Okay,” he replies, hands in the air in surrender, and backs away. “You clearly know what you’re doing. I was just trying to help you move the board.”
“I got it.” Deep breath. “But thank you for the offer,” I tell him, glancing his way again. He’s wearing well-worn jeans that hang dangerously low on his narrow hips and a dark green Army T-shirt. It too looks well-worn, the coloring fading just a little bit.
“I’m just going to sit over here where you can’t accidentally cut off my hand with your saw. Holler if you need help.” Latham grabs his cooler and heads over to the shade tree. My patio furniture is on the deck, so he marches up the stairs, grabs my favorite lounger, and returns to the place my dog was just resting. Snuggles seems particularly happy to have a friend join her under the tree, lying on the ground directly off to his left, where his hand can continually pet her head. He pops off the top on a beer bottle, takes a hearty swig, and sets out to watch me work.
I’ve never had an audience before.
It’s weird.
And a little exciting.
Pushing all thoughts of my voyeur out of my mind, I finish measuring out and cutting the two roof pieces. In fact, I get lost in my work and completely forget about Latham being here. The radio on the deck plays 90’s music as I continue to get all of my pieces cut out, softly singing along as I go. The only one left is the base. Needing the third sheet of plywood, I head over to retrieve it, only to be met with another set of hands.
“Before you say anything, I know you can carry it, but since I’m here, I don’t mind helping.” Latham throws the sheet over his shoulder and carries it over to the sawhorses for me. I don’t argue, even though I really want to. My argumentative nature comes out in full force when Latham is involved. I don’t know what it is, really, but the man has always had this infuriating ability to get under my skin.
“Thanks,” I reply, grabbing the tape measure from my tool belt and marking out my corners.
Latham grabs the chalk line and holds it in place, following my lead. He never pushes me out of the way (like Joey did when he tried helping me make one of the display shelves for the store). Instead, he stands to the side and jumps in exactly where I need, never once taking over the project. Before I know it, we have all the pieces cut, including the two-by-four trim, and are ready to start piecing it together.
“I have to admit, Harper, you’re a refreshing contradiction,” he says as he pulls another beer out of the cooler and hands it to me, before taking one for himself.
“Why, because I can build my own shit?” I ask, sweating a little (okay, a lot) and enjoying the way the cold beer quenches my thirst.
“Well, yeah. Most women would just go out and buy a plastic doghouse, let alone try to build one themselves,” he says, drinking about half his bottle in one gulp.
“Well, I’m not like most women,” I retort, setting my bottle aside and reaching for my drill.
“Don’t I know it,” he mumbles quietly, finishing off his bottle and tossing it in the outdoor recycle bin. When the glass hits what’s inside, Snuggles jumps up from her nap under the tree and rushes over to make sure he’s okay. I can’t help but shake my head at my traitorous dog, though if I were telling the truth, I completely understand why she likes him. Though, I’d never admit that aloud, so I don’t say a word.
“Let’s get this thing framed up and then I’ll throw dinner on the grill,” I say, digging out the box of screws Latham picked for me in the hardware store.
“Wow, dinner? Will it be poisoned?” he asks as he continues to pet my dog, the corners of his lips turning upward.
Why am I suddenly really jealous of my dog? I’m sure it has nothing to do with the fact his large hands are rubbing across her belly, my puppy’s tongue hanging out of her mouth and her eyes practically rolling back into her head while she gets a rubdown.
Stupid hormones.
Pushing them out of my mind, I grab the sides and start to bring them into position, reaching for one of the clamps. Just as I connect with one, a warm hand wraps around mine, sending bolts of electricity coursing through my body, landing firmly between my legs. My panties are suddenly worthless.
“Let me grab that, Sweetheart,” he whispers, towering over my like a giant on steroids. My body starts to react in ways I wish it wouldn’t, at least when it comes to the Devil, yet I can’t seem to control it.
I don’t even call him out on his term of endearment, mostly because I’m not sure actual words would come out of my mouth. My brain is short-circuiting, my throat dry, and my head reeling from his touch. Plus, there’s the fact I actually kinda like it when he calls me that.
Wait, what?
No.
No, I don’t like it.
I’m no one’s sweetheart, especially Latham’s.
My mind is at war as we work side by side for the next hour. It’s hard to hate him when he’s so damn helpful. He assists by cutting the little triangles I use to keep the sides together, holding them in place while I screw. He holds the level, but only checks the accuracy after I’ve settled on the position. He remains quiet while I work, which is completely un-Latham-like. I even catch him humming along to one of the songs on the radio, but as soon as I call him out on it, he turns cherry-red and refuses to acknowledge me. Before long, the doghouse is completely assembled, and I couldn’t be happier with the work.
“Nice job,” he says, digging another beer out of the cooler and handing it to me, both of us standing beside the project to admire our handiwork.
“Thanks. I appreciate the help,” I reply, taking a drink from the bottle.
“Did you just compliment me? And your brain didn’t even explode!”
“Shut up or I’ll take it back.”
“You can’t take it back. No takebacks.”
“What is this, third grade? Of course I can take it back!”
Latham takes a step closer. “False!” he yells, rousing my puppy from her slumber once more. “No takebacks, I called it.”
“You called it after the takeback, though. That doesn’t count.”
He steps closer again. “It does count. My rules.”
I blink, suddenly realizing how very close he is. He’s standing directly in front of me, and I can smell the mixture of sweat and soap on his skin. His chocolate brown eyes are dark with little speckles of gold, and they have me pinned to where I stand. His lips curl into that stupid smirk, and suddenly, kissing him seems like the best idea I’ve ever had, which is crazy, considering I don’t even like the guy.
Okay, so maybe that’s not entirely true.
Anyway, I’m point two seconds away from going up on my toes and kissing that s
mirk right off his face when I feel two paws on my thigh and a cold nose on my hand.
Saved by Snuggles.
I glance down, breaking the contact with our eyes, and pet my dog’s head. The moment she’s satisfied with some attention, she turns to Latham and demands the same from him. “Yeah, we see you,” he says to Snuggles, getting down on one knee and giving her proper attention. Her tongue lops out of her mouth as she stares up at him with lust in her eyes. I’m pretty sure my dog has a crush.
And what’s not to like?
He’s tall, gorgeous (though I’m not really admitting that out loud), and smells amazing even when he’s a little sweaty. So I can see why she’s all googly-eyed. “I have an idea,” he says, not moving an inch out of my personal space. “You said something about dinner, right?” He barely waits for my head nod response before continuing. “Why don’t you go up and get started, and I’ll finish cleaning up the mess. I take it you’re going to paint it?” he asks, glancing over my shoulder to my nearly finished doghouse. I didn’t use good enough wood to stain it; something he definitely would have noticed.
Finally, I take a step back. “Yes. How do you take your steak?”
He seems surprised by the question. “Medium-rare.”
“Thank God you didn’t say well-done. I just might have to drop your meat on the ground before throwing it on the grill,” I tease, though not really. I’ve never understood someone who wants their meat cooked until it’s practically jerky.
Latham chuckles. “I like my meat juicy, tender, and the perfect shade of pink,” he replies, making my pulse quicken. His eyes blaze with dark fury, and something tells me he’s not at all referring to the slab of meat I’m about to throw on the grill.
Needing to step away and cool off (yes, I’m considering throwing my head in a bucket of cold water), I move and start to head to my back porch. I whistle for Snuggles, but when I glance over my shoulder, she’s attached to Latham’s leg, completely ignoring my call. When I reach my sliding glass door, the cool air pelts me in the face, helping calm down my overheated skin.
