His eyes immediately widen when he catches sight of me, but he shakes the initial shock off. "Hey, long time no see." That half-smile surfaces although it's forced.
"Hey, long time no see, yourself," I respond with a stiff smile. "So what have you been up to?"
"The same thing as you--building a house." There's zero playfulness in his tone and I find myself missing the sound.
"What about your hand?" I glance down at the cut now covered by a piece of gauze. "How's it doing?"
He raises his bandaged hand without removing his eyes from me. "The hand's doing fine."
"You've been taking care of it, right?"
He nods, those damn crystal blue eyes of his boring into mine. "Yeah, I have... What about ..." He trails off. "Why are you here, Avery?"
"Uh, to build a house?" It sounds more like a question than an answer.
His lips quirk and his overwhelming stare alleviates a smidgeon. "I know that. But why are you over here with me? Because it seems like you've been avoiding me for the last few days."
I feel terrible, maybe more than I should. "Yeah, sorry. I've just been..." I clear my throat before plastering on a smile. "But anyway. No more avoiding because you're my boss now."
His face contorts as he slants to the side and chucks the board he's holding into a pile of wood. "I'm your boss?"
"Yeah, I think I've been banished from putting up walls and now you're stuck with me." I playfully bump shoulders with him, trying to be cheery Avery and nothing else. It's difficult when his sweat ends up getting on my skin. I don't mind as much as I probably should. "Congrats. You're officially my babysitter."
He chuckles under his breath then bends over to grab another board, giving me just enough time to enjoy the view of his ass. "That sounds like a fun job if you ask me."
"I hate to break it to you, but it's not," I tell him as he stands upright. "I really, really suck at this whole building thing." I cup my hand around the side of my face and lower my voice a notch. "I'm going to tell you a secret but you have to promise you won't tell anyone."
He plays along, jokingly peering around before inching closer, his gaze noticeably flickering to my lips for a searing instant. "I swear my lips are sealed."
I catch a hint of his scent--soap, sweat, and cigarettes--and I discreetly breathe in the wonderful unfamiliarity of it before whispering, "I've never built anything before."
His expression remains neutral. "Yeah, I kind of figured as much considering the stories I've heard about you."
My jaw drops as I move away. "Mister Asshole has been talking about me, hasn't he?"
He shrugs. "It doesn't really matter." He positions the board up on the table then roughly drags his fingers through his damp hair, leaving strands sticking up all over the place. "Half the people around here haven't built anything. In fact, I was that way when I first started."
I place a hand on my hip and elevate my brows. "Did you search the internet to find out how exactly to hammer in a nail?"
Laughter bubbles from his lips and despite the fact that I have a no guys rule, I note just how great of a laugh he has. "No, but that's cute." He winks at me.
"Hey, no mocking me or my incompetence." I laugh with him, feeling tingly inside from the wink. It's been so long since the tingles showed up I'd almost forgotten what they feel like.
And how frightening they can be.
I promptly stop laughing and panic instead.
Tristan must sense my anxiety because he randomly changes the subject. "So if you want, I can go have a little chat with Mister Asshole," he says. "That's what you call him, right?"
I nod, settling down. "Yeah, that would be the very fitting nickname I gave him. I almost went with Mr. Short Guy Douche Bag because he seems to suffer from the short guy complex." I stretch my arm into the air, grinning. "I think he might be a little jealous because I can reach higher than him."
Tristan snorts a laugh. "Or maybe it's because he secretly thinks you're hot and he's one of those guys that is still mean to the girls he likes."
"Ew." I swat his shoulder, making him laugh even harder. "He's like in his thirties and short and hairy and gross. He even took his shirt off the other day and he had hair all over his back like this long." I lift my hand and hold my finger and thumb about an inch apart. "I seriously think he might be part werewolf."
Tristan starts laughing again and I'll admit I am too. A tiny part of me feels bad that our entertainment comes from mocking Mister Asshole, but not enough to stop the fun.
"Maybe if you brought a razor, you could shave it off for him," Tristan suggests through his chuckling. "He could have a fetish for that and maybe that's why he was showing off his back to you, hoping you'd bite the bait."
I make gagging sounds through my laughter. "Oh my God, stop! I'm going to throw up if you don't!" Tears sting at my eyes, happy tears. I suddenly realize it's been a while since I laughed this hard.
"So you're not into the back hair shaving thing." He rubs his scruffy jawline thoughtfully. "I'll have to make a mental note of that."
"Why?" I ask, wiping my tears away with my fingers. "You don't have a hairy back."
"Maybe it's because I shave it."
I roll my eyes. "You do not. I can tell."
His lips quirk. "How so?"
"Because I've looked and there's no stubble."
"Are you saying you've been checking me out?" He's all grins and cockiness now.
"I walked right into that one, didn't I?" I say with a defeated sigh, unable to eliminate the smile from my face.
Suddenly someone clears their throat from behind me. Tristan's attention darts over my shoulder and I whirl around then shuffle backwards. Mister Asshole is standing close to me with a power drill in his hand and a stone cold expression on his round face.
"This is a work place, girlie," he says, staring icily at me. "Not a place to flirt. Make yourself useful for once instead of distracting everyone or get in your car and go home where you belong."
"Bite me," I retort, flustered like I was the other day when he yelled at me. "And it's Avery, not girlie."
"Who cares?" he replies. "You're all the same."
I want to ask him who he's referring to, but I'm fairly certain his talking about the female population, being very sexist right now. My tongue burns with a thousand rude remarks to throw back in his face, but Tristan steps up to the side of me, his fingers brushing against the small of my back, causing me to jump. Then I swear to God my knees almost give out.
"Shouldn't you be working?" he asks intimidatingly.
Mister Asshole's eyes cut to Tristan. "That's what I'm doing." He lifts the power drill in his hand as if that proves a point.
"Clearly," Tristan responds dryly. "You know it's illegal to harass coworkers, right? Male or female."
He lowers the power drill, a scowl forming on his weathered face. "I wasn't harassing her because she's a female."
"That's not what it looks like to me," Tristan says. "Didn't your mother every teach you not to pick on girls?" His fingers stiffen on my back, forcing me to move closer to him. I'm surprised how willingly my body gives in, how much it craves contact from another. "Now apologize to Avery and go away."
"No way," Mister Asshole argues. When Tristan stands up straight, towering over him, he adds. "I don't have to listen to you. You're a fucking kid for crying out loud."
Tristan doesn't utter another word, just crosses his arms and stares him down. His height, stance, and bulging muscles are very threatening and Mister Asshole appears tense.
"Whatever," Mister Asshole mutters. "Stupid punk kids are a pain in my ass." Then he stomps back toward the foundation without giving me an apology.
I've realized two things the moment the silence sets in: 1) The last time someone helped me, was when Tristan stepped in-between Conner and me in the alleyway. The last time that happened before that was... never. And 2) Even if I've always prided myself on being able to take care of my own problems, I think I might
actually like the occasional interference from another because right now I feel... lighter.
Turning toward Tristan, I rack my mind for what to say to him. Thank you? You rock? Touch me again?
He beats me to the punch, speaking first. "I wonder how much of our conversation he heard before he cleared his throat. My bet is the whole thing and he shows up tomorrow with a shaved back."
An uncontrollable grin spreads across my face. "Well, then I guess one good thing came out of that, didn't it?"
"Just one thing?" he wonders. "Man, I thought I'd get brownie points for putting him in his place." He waits for me to say something and when I don't, he pouts. Actually, freaking pouts, the sexiest, most delicious, adorable pout ever. "I know I didn't get an apology out of him, but I could have easily if violence were allowed on the job."
"Is that why you did all that? For brownie points?"
He shakes his head. "No, the guy needed to be put in his place. I don't think he just suffers from a short guy complex, but I think he might be a little sexist."
"Okay, that remark just got you one more brownie point"--I make a ding sound, like I'm tallying his points up-- "which puts you up to four points."
He slants his head to the side and strands of his hair fall in his eyes. "Where did the other three come from?"
"One for putting Mister Asshole in his place. One for making me cry happy tears. And one for..." I swallow hard, unable to finish. One for Conner.
And just like that, our moment crumbles.
As if Tristan has super powers and senses my deflating mood, he changes the subject for the second time in five minutes. "All right, are you ready to do this?" He nods his head at the rectangular table that has a jagged blade attached to it.
You just earned yourself another brownie point, my friend.
I nod. "Sure, if you are."
He circles around me and I think he might be leaving to get something but then he steps up and inches me forward by gently pushing his chest against my back.
"What are you doing?" I ask, half in panic and half in a state of holy fucking hell his sweaty body feels amazing. That thought is followed by holy hell, my body is super deprived.
And lonely.
But I know better.
Just step away Avery.
Tristan doesn't stop steering me forward until my stomach touches the edge of the table. Then he puts an arm down on each side of me, pinning me between them, and tangles his fingers with mine. "I'm teaching you how to cut a board. That way you can get the upper hand over Mister Asshole if he decides to bother you again." He acts calm, but there's a slight quiver to his voice.
"Why would that help me get the upper hand?" I struggle to breathe steadily as his warmth seeps through the back of my shirt. I'm tottering between being completely turned on and utterly horrified by my reaction, straight along the lines of being a virgin again.
I wonder if Tristan's doing it on purpose, if he knows his touch is driving my body crazy. He seems to have that way about him--super confident and dripping with forbidden sexiness. But he also seems nervous right now too, so I'm not certain what to think about the situation and how he really feels. And really, I shouldn't be thinking anything about the situation. Or him.
What did I just get myself into?
He dips his mouth beside my ear, his breath deliciously hot against my skin. "Because he doesn't know how to use the table saw."
Okay, he has to know what he's doing to me.
"Thanks." I grip the table for support before my knees buckle out on me. "But can you do me a favor?"
Another warm breath caresses my cheek. "I'll do anything you want, Avery." His voice is hoarse like his words are affecting him just as much as they are me.
It nearly kills me to say it, my body protesting in every way imaginable, but I need to get it out and in a light tone. "Can you lay off on the flirting while we do this? Or I might have to take one of your brownie points away."
He hesitates then leans away. His face is still hovering near one of my most elaborate and meaningful tattoos branded on my back right above the scars. It's of a half dead, half thriving tree and is the one he wrote about on the cupboard, the tattoo he never got to fully see. Right now, his lips are close enough he could taste the words and I swear he's going to kiss the ink. Or maybe the collar of my shirt has moved low enough so he can see the tip of my scars.
Fuck, can he see my scars?
"Still doing the no guys thing?" he asks, his voice coming out in a strangled whisper. "Even after all the brownie points I earned?"
I'm panting. Actually fucking panting. And I have to take several breaths before I can speak in an even tone. "Of course. Why would I ever break that awesome rule? Even for brownie points." I make light of my words even when I feel squeamish inside.
"All right, fair deal." He gives me a little more space before he lets go of one of my hands to turn on the saw. "But can I ask, how many brownie points would I have to earn for you to consider going out with me?"
An exhale falters from my lips at the idea of going out on a date. God, it's been so many years I wouldn't even know what to do with myself and the last time I agreed to a date led to years of pain and abuse.
"A hundred," I tell him.
He pauses for what feels like an eternity.
"Two a day," he finally muses.
"Two a day? Huh?"
"I'd have to earn two points a day while I'm here in order to get you to consider going out with me."
"That would give you over a hundred," I say, releasing my death grip from the table. "If you're going to be here for a couple of months."
"I'm covering all my bases," he replies, his voice gravelly. "Besides, maybe I could cash in the extra twenty for something else."
His words reverberate through my body, but my tone is surprisingly even. "Like what?"
He shifts nearer. "I'll have to think about it for a while, but I'm thinking maybe I could see that tattoo on your back."
"No one sees the tattoo on my back." I turn around to remind him that flirting and breathing on the back of my neck isn't going to get him any brownie points, but then I realize it might because I like the sound of his voice and the feel of his breath.
I open my mouth to say... Well, I'm not sure what. Nor do I get to find out because he starts in on a short instructional on how to cut a board. After he's done explaining, we get to work, guiding the long piece of wood through the saw blade. By the time we're done splitting, I'm feeling better than I did this morning, the burdens of finances and responsibilities getting drowned out by the loud humming of the saw.
We cut about five boards before Tristan shuts off the saw and steps back to add the cut boards into a pile. As the silence sets in, I find myself missing the loud humming.
"So why are you here this late?" Tristan asks casually as he drops a board onto the stack. "Is it because you had to leave early that day and you're still making up the hours?"
I nod as I adjust my ponytail. "Yeah, I'm still working on making that up. I have a hard time staying late and stuff. And I haven't been getting very much sleep the last few days."
"You shouldn't work yourself so hard." He dusts sawdust off his hands. "And Wilson's not so hardcore that you have to make up the time."
"I'm fine and I need to make it up--it's important," I tell him and he shoots me a doubtful look. "What? What's that look for?"
He shrugs then bends over to scoop up another board. "It's just that I saw you sleeping in your Jeep earlier... and you looked really out of it, so I asked Nova to go wake you up before anyone else found you."
I grow uneasy again at his kindness and end up cracking a joke to break the tension because things are so much less complex when we're joking. Easy even. "Wow, pretty boy's got a sweet side to him. Who would have thought."
A grin tugs at his lips. "You're one interesting person, Avery..." He trails off as he stands back upright with another board. "What is your last name anyway?"
"Hens
ley." I almost slipped up and said Wellings, which isn't my name anymore, but it was for four years and it's hard to break that kind of habit--to break any habit. "What's yours?"
"Morganson." He deliberatively pauses. "So can I ask why you haven't been sleeping very well?"
"I had finals online the last couple of weeks but they're over now, so I should be good." I wait for him to set the board on the table, but he keeps staring at it.
"So you're tiredness has nothing to do with Conner?" He finally looks up at me and his intensity makes me wish he would have kept his gaze directed on the board. "Your ex-husband?"
And there it is.
Broken.
Silence.
"No, it's not him." I shift my weight uncomfortably. "I actually haven't seen him since that... thing happened at the bar."
Wreck Me Page 9
