by Nicole Snow
“Oh. Bummer.” She toys with an auburn lock of hair, deep in her own head as I fight to look away. “Seems like some things never change around here. I kinda hoped that was one more. Imagine if we snuck back there for nostalgia?”
I huff out a breath like fire at the idea of going swimming with her now. At night.
Now that we’re both grown-up and finding every excuse to hang out like this. Never mind whether or not they’re good ones.
Shit.
“Just promise to call me when you’re heading out next time for goat duty, okay?”
“I can’t put you out like that, Quinn.” She smiles at me. “But I will text you. And I promise to call you if I need help, or if I see anybody else with freaky tattoos trying to get in Carolina’s pants.”
“Woman, you’d better,” I growl.
Figuring I’m going to have to settle for that right now, I give her an easy smile.
“And you’d better be ready to drink some strawberry rhubarb wine,” Tory says.
“Why’s that?”
She points at the clock on the dash. “We’ve only been gone a little over an hour. Granny’s next door, at Otis and Velma’s, and she’ll see us pull in. I don’t want her getting...ideas.”
She bites her lip on that last word, pulling on her heart-shaped mouth.
Oh, fuck.
So much for not going home with blue balls bigger than boulders tonight.
She’s right about one thing, though.
“If you’re so hungry for a break from Granny Coffey, fine. I’m not taking you home yet.” I turn at the next corner.
“Where are we going?”
“You just volunteered to help me install a washer so I’ll have clean clothes tomorrow.”
“You’re so ridiculous.” She falls back in her seat and laughs, shaking her head fiercely. “Tell me you at least have a dryer?”
“Yep. Brand new. She’s a beaut,” I throw back.
“Which also needs to be installed?”
“Yes, ma’am. Thanks for being so willing to help a man out. Don’t worry, nothing with muscle, you get the light stuff.”
Hell no. I’ve got half a mind to just keep her there holding a screwdriver, looking real pretty.
She laughs. “I hope you know what you’re doing. Other than pushing the start button, I don’t have a clue how washers or dryers work.”
“Can’t be that hard. They came with a big fat instruction manual. Nice not having it all online. You can read it to me.”
She laughs again, amusement pouring out of her like energy. Like music. Like life.
Her laugh always echoed like a song.
Tory’s voice has a melody like no other. I think I could listen to her talk or grumble or giggle her little face off all damn day.
And that’s why this shit is so hard.
The chasm between how I should be in her peach-sweet presence, and how I want to be, only grows wider.
My house is on the edge of town, and the look Tory gives me as we pull into the driveway fills me with a sense of pride I haven’t felt in ages.
“Wow. No, wow. Quinn, this place looks amazing!” she gushes, her face splashed with tilting light.
The sun, just starting to set, surrounds the house with the same rosy golden glow.
Normally, I’d be fighting off her shower of praise with a humble umbrella, but I’ve gotta admit, it ain’t half bad. My hard work pays off a little more with each passing week.
The brand spankin’ new red siding and white trim, brick walkway, new sod, and freshly trimmed hedge do look awfully fine.
“It’s like...magazine-perfect,” she whispers again, opening the passenger door. “I can’t wait to see the inside. Race you to the front door!”
“Tory!”
Shit, she’s quicker than a rabbit. I jump out and race after her, knowing I don’t have a prayer of catching up with her lithe body flying toward the porch.
“C’mon, slow poke. Can’t you see I’m excited?” She bounces on her heels, sending a ripple through layers of curves I really don’t need to see.
Turning so she can’t see my mutinous hard-on, I fish out my keys.
“It’s not all done yet,” I warn her, casting her a settle down look. “Very damn much a work in progress.”
“Oh, I know. That’s why I’m here, right? To help you install a washer and dryer I know nothing about.”
I snort. “It’s more than the appliances that ain’t fully settled yet, Peach.”
I watch as she does a quick turn, taking in the porch we’re standing on.
“Did you do all this yourself?” she asks, her voice airy with wonder.
“I had a little help with some things. Mostly friends and locals.”
“I love this brick porch! It’s so unique. And right there, the perfect place for a swing.”
Damn her. I forgot how many times we’d slip onto the same wavelength in the past, and apparently that hasn’t changed with time.
I point to the corner of the porch. “You get one guess what’s in that box.”
“No way. A white one?” she whispers hopefully.
“Maybe,” I tell her coyly.
“Holy crap. Awesome. We’re so hanging that up after we finish with the machines.”
“We’ll see. No telling how long the install will take,” I tell her, smiling as I unlock the door.
“I have all night,” she says, sidestepping me to run up to the box. “Oh my gosh, I can see it now. Sitting out here in the morning with a cup of coffee, listening to the birds sing...that would be so calming. This place is a lot quieter than it was in your grandfather’s day.”
I nod. No arguing with that. Unlike Gramps, I haven’t gotten buried with tons of critters.
Also can’t help picturing Tory sitting there, lazily sipping off a warm mug and listening to the birds tweet while the sun warms the horizon.
Hell.
Another life, I tell myself. A dark flicker roils my guts, a repressed wish that things could be different if she wasn’t Miss Fancy Schmancy, and if I didn’t have a violent fucking convict breathing down my neck.
And if I’d had the balls to write her after that last summer, if I’d visited Chicago between deployments...
Goddamn.
Shaking my head, I dispel the what-ifs and question my sanity.
Why did I bring her here, really?
“Come on, I’ll show you our project,” I tell her, trying to answer my own question.
Pushing the door open, I wait impatiently while she oohs and aahhs over the hardwood floors, the vaulted ceiling, and the open floor plan I spent weeks knocking down drywall to perfect.
Nice to see someone appreciates my work.
I guess.
The not-so-nice part is the tempting fury she puts in my blood.
“Ohhh. White trim with black doors—nice contrast!” She opens the closest door, grinning like a kid who’s been given the keys to the kingdom. “Whoa, a mudroom? Too perfect for North Dakota. You really thought of everything, Quinn.”
“It was just gonna be a closet at first, but I decided to enclose the length of the wall instead,” I tell her, forgetting how I’d whacked my thumb with a hammer and woke the devil with my curses on that little modification.
“Cute bench, cute cubbies, and functional hooks.” She points to the door on the other end of the closet. “Does that door go to the garage?”
“Yep, with the garage on that side, I didn’t like the idea of a door leading straight into the living room,” I tell her.
“Did this place always have a garage?” she asks. “Thought I remembered Farmer Faulkner always parking his truck next to his tractor in the nicer weather?”
“You’re right. Gramps had it put on just a couple years before he died. He finally got sick of the winters.”
She closes the door and steps into the living room.
“The kitchen isn’t done yet,” I warn her, pointing out the obvious on the far side of the r
oom. “Still have to paint the cabinets and finish off the island.”
She’s staring with her back to me, transfixed like she’s imagining what it’d be like to live here.
Fuck.
Not something she needs to imagine.
Definitely not something I need to think of her thinkin’.
“It’s an awesome start,” she says softly, walking in to explore. “I love the copper farm sink. What’s up with the island, though? The top looks new, but the rest...it’s almost like an old workbench.”
I lean against the top of it, smiling at the curiosity dancing across her face.
“Because it is. It was my grandpa’s. I took it out of the shop, jacked it up a few inches, sanded it down, and put on the granite countertop. It’ll be painted charcoal grey, along with the cupboards, once I’m through.”
“Wow,” she mouths, letting her fingers flutter below her chin. “That’s so sweet. I’m glad you found a way to honor his memory.”
I nod, then quickly change the subject. “Ridge’s wife, Grace, helped me pick the colors. It’s what she does, makes shit pretty for a living. You’ll have to meet her if you’re around these parts long enough.”
“I’d like that,” Tory says, flashing me World Ending Smile number one hundred. “You know how stubborn Granny gets, but maybe I could sweet-talk her into sprucing up a few things.”
“Your funeral, lady,” I say, completely deadpan.
Of course she laughs, wrinkling her nose.
And of course I’m about to kick my own ass for ever thinking bringing Tory Three Names home would make this weird thing between us easier, less tense, more platonic.
Crossing the kitchen, I lead her down the hall that stretches to the back of the house.
“Now for the less glamorous part. The laundry room’s back here.”
“Hey, is that a sliding barn door?” She rushes right past me to the door that was a royal pain to hang all by my lonesome. “Did you take a survey of dream homes and put every element in here, or what?”
I watch, dumbfounded, as she slides open the door like it’s the greatest game in the world. Then she somehow sees past the appliance boxes sitting there.
“What the...I thought you said it was barely finished? I see tiled floors, a full sink, loads of cupboards and space. You really know your stuff, Quinn Faulkner,” she says with an accusing laugh, turning to face me again.
“Yeah, well, it ain’t finished,” I grumble again, ignoring the awkward heat against my face. “I don’t brag about anything till the job’s done.”
She laughs again. “Oh, don’t be ridiculous. This place will sell in a heartbeat! Or if you decided to settle in for a while—”
“Selling. That’s the goal.” I cut her off, unsure what my endgame really is.
I plod over to the boxes and slap the top of one. “Washer here. Dryer there. Both good Bosch models.”
“Don’t tell me they’re white.” She flinches slightly and scrunches up her face. “All the character in this room deserves color.”
“Nope.” I grab a box cutter and slice open a box. “Royal blue. Custom order.”
I stiffen as Tory applauds, a goofy grin plastered on her face.
“Glad to have your approval.”
“Sorry. I mean, white would be fine, but the rest of the place just screams unique. I know you’re not trying to get featured on a home shopping show or whatever but...yes. Just yes.”
My dick twitches at the way she breathes it out.
“Come again?” I ask.
“That blue shade is a dream. That’s all.” She pats her face, mock-slapping herself awake again. “Sorry, Quinn. I don’t know what’s gotten into me. I never usually get this excited over appliances.”
Neither do I.
And I normally don’t get hard enough to drive nails thanks to a strange woman in my house, either.
I’m glad I took Grace’s advice, though. When she suggested I order a colorful set, I thought she was going overboard, but seeing Tory’s reaction...
Shit.
I’ll either be thanking her or cursing the day I enlisted her help.
“Well, we’d better get started. I know you didn’t just bring me here to drool over the place,” Tory says glumly, shrugging like I’ve been the one holding her back from the grind ahead.
“Can’t be that bad. Many hands, light work, you know the rest.” I chuckle, handing her the plastic bag off the top of the washer with the manual and small parts. “You read me the story of how Sir Faulk slayed the washer dragon while I get this beast out of its box.”
I look away just as she casts me a glance that’s equal parts amused and utterly fed up with my bull.
What can I say?
Screwing around with dumb jokes and teasing glances might be playing with fire, but I’ve always had a pyro edge.
The next few hours are more fun than I’ve had in forever.
With Tory reading me the right mechanical incantations, I’m able to get the machines hooked up and working in no time. Relief lashes my veins as I listen to that beauty purr.
Tory insisted on testing them out ASAP, so I found a couple old jackets due for a cleaning.
No surprise, my helper was just as adamant about assisting me with the porch swing.
So I cave, my way of saying thanks for lending me a hand.
Assembling the swing doesn’t take long. Not with her hands holding it up, standing opposite me while I plant the hooks.
For just a second, my chest grazes her tits. I almost lose my grip with half the blood in my body plunging below my waistline.
Fuck.
It’s a miracle I manage to finish the job without mangling anything, much less Tory noticing the tool with a mind of its own stretching my denim.
As soon as it’s secured from the porch ceiling, I grab us both a beer and we sit down, trying it out because the damn thing just has to be big enough for two.
“So what’s next, Mr. Fix It?” Tory asks shyly, sipping her beer, cozied up against my shoulder.
Far off crickets sing to us while the silver stars twinkle above like tinsel. No other light around except the soft, mellow orange glow of the porch lamp.
It feels downright romantic, and that’s the problem.
“Next?” Ignoring the flash of devouring her mouth, then picking her up and carrying her upstairs to my bed, I take a long swig off my longneck bottle.
“We could start painting the kitchen cupboards, couldn’t we?” she muses, elbowing me playfully in the side.
I lean back, shaking my head at her as much as I’m reprimanding my own dark thoughts.
“Not tonight, girl. We’re coming up on midnight. Gotta sleep sometime.”
“Aw, you’re just as much a night owl as I am.” She takes a quick sip off her beer. “Why not, Quinn? You have two more hands for free.”
Oof. You know it’s fucking bad when just hearing about her hands sets me off.
I can’t stop thinking about exactly where I’d love to put them to work, and it’s got nothing to do with this old house.
Pushing off the floor with one foot, I make the swing move, staring down at my beer. “Trouble is, that’s an all-day job, and you’ve already helped plenty for one night.”
“I like painting, and I’m pretty good at it,” she offers.
“Really? What have you painted?”
“My entire room back home.” She laughs. “It took me forever to finish it because of my dance schedule. It drove Mother crazy having the walls half-finished for over a month. She likes everything just so.” Leaning back, she takes another fast drink of her beer. “Perfectionist to the end. Maybe we’re not so different that way...”
I sense there’s more behind her words.
Almost like she’s been molded in her ma’s perfectionist image when she doesn’t want to be.
I want to ask, but I’m already in too deep.
Working with Tory all evening has been a bizarre torture. A tease, a li
ving memory, and a guilt trip in one.
She smells too good.
She’s too damn delectable.
She’s sexy without even trying to be.
Everything about her puts a fire in my balls like nothing else.
I’m beginning to wonder if it’s truly her or just the unholy place my brain has gone, stuck on dirty thoughts about a friend I can’t have.
I’m not an animal. I can’t betray her that way. And the longer she’s around, the more we touch, the less space there is between us...I’m worried I’ll lose control. Take her in ways I shouldn’t, and I’ll fuck things up without meaning to.
Hiding a sigh, I down my beer and stand. “Better get you home before Granny shows up on her bike looking for you, Peach.”
“Oh, she’s not going to come looking for me here.” She rolls her eyes.
“Probably not, but I don’t want to worry her or piss off Granny Coffey. She’s a pistol in this town.” I hold out a hand. “Come on. Time to go.”
A heavy frown pulls at her face, but finally, she sticks out her fingers.
I take them to help her up.
The moment she lays her hand in mine, frantic heat races up my arm.
Call it cheesy as hell, predictable even, I don’t fucking care.
There’s always been this weird polarity between us, and it’s only gotten worse.
Her touch resonates the same energy she had all those years ago.
I’d stopped touching her much then, the more we grew up, even holding her hand. It was like being struck by lightning every time and enjoying it.
And the older I got, turning from a boy into a man, I started to figure out just what that feeling really means.
I’m about to drop her hand like a hot rock when her grip tightens.
She steps closer. “Thanks, Quinn. It’s been fun. Exactly what I needed to get my mind off some things back home.”
Oh, hell.
She’s close enough to kiss, and I rediscover just how weak I am when it comes to her.
Because I’m fighting like mad to keep my lips to myself, damn scared of what I’ll lose if I slip up and put my mouth where it doesn’t belong.
“No need to bullshit.” Fumbling a step back like I’ve been shot, I say, “Who ever had fun putting in a washer and dryer?”
