“Nope,” I say, biting the nail a little too hard. “I got it. Thanks, though.”
“I’m just going to stand here and make sure.”
“You do that.”
I mock up another nail. Before I swing the hammer, I ensure my weight is evenly distributed and the bracket is poised exactly where I think it might work. Now that I have an audience, I can’t fail.
“You know, if you move that about two inches to the left, there’s probably a stud,” he says. “I mean, there’s one behind you, too, but you probably aren’t looking to nail the one with the great abs. Or are you?”
My eyes roll so hard it almost hurts. I blow out a breath in exasperation. “I’ve nailed a lot of great abs. Unfortunately, the abs are usually where the greatness stops.”
Harper’s laugh barrels across the room and mixes with my self-appointed supervisor’s chuckle. If I weren’t so focused on getting the speaker hung and mildly irritated at his confidence, I’d probably really enjoy the timbre of his voice.
“All jokes aside, there’s an outlet by the floor underneath you. Outlets are always on a stud. So if you really want to hang that thing, move it over two inches like I said, and you’ll be fine.”
“I was doing just fine without you,” I say. But as I think about the logic behind his remark, he’s probably right. Damn it.
“Suit yourself.”
I wait for him to move into my line of sight. He doesn’t. He stays positioned perfectly behind me so I’d have to actually look over my shoulder to see him. The thought crosses my mind that he might be checking out my butt, and I’m thankful I wore my good jeans today.
I want to see him but don’t want to turn around. That would be obvious. I also don’t want to move this bracket two inches to the left and prove him right, but I have to.
Ugh.
Sliding the metal across the drywall, I hold my breath and wait for him to say something. I put the nail into the hole and wait again. Still nothing. Just as I draw the hammer back, he speaks.
“Are you new around here or what?” he asks.
My hands drop to my sides as I spin around. The bracket pings as it hits the floor. “Why do you ask so many quest . . . ions . . .”
It’s like his gaze is waiting for me. It plucks mine out of the air and locks it in place. As soon as our eyes meet, an audible gasp escapes my lips.
Holy. Shit.
I’ve seen those eyes before. They were lit up by a makeshift fire beside Dogwood Lake as we dined on a bag of cheesy chips and a can of soda from a machine by the bait shop.
He’s smiling up at me with the deepest, sexiest dimple that God ever gave a man. “You are definitely new around here. I’d remember seeing you.”
My mouth opens to call bullshit, to tell him he’s seen more of me than what he’s looking at now, when I stop myself.
He doesn’t recognize me.
Well, hell.
Nothing like a kick to the self-esteem when your one-night stand doesn’t recognize you, even if it was ten years ago.
His brows pull together. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, I—ah!” I move too fast for the old ladder. It rocks beneath me, the stabilizing bars on the sides wobbling. Before I know it, my legs are going one way and my top half is going the other and I land
In.
His.
Arms.
My breath comes out in panicked huffs, my heart thundering in my chest. I take in a deep lungful of air that’s tinged with a clean, masculine scent—a scent that is like electricity in my veins.
Holy freaking crap.
One of his thick, muscled arms is wrapped beneath my legs. The other is cushioned around my back. He holds me with no effort and looks down, completely pleased with himself.
“I’m sorry,” I say, trying to ignore the way a ripple of goose bumps speckles my skin.
“That’s okay. I’m used to women falling for me.”
I pull my hand away from across his wide shoulders, letting my fingertips trail the back of his neck for only a split second. “Put me down,” I say while I have the sense to say it. “Please.”
“Sure thing.” He grins as he sets me on my feet. “Want me to hang the speaker for you?”
“No, I do not,” I say, my cheeks flushing. “I can do it.” It takes everything I have to rip my eyes from his tattooed arms—the arms I was just cradled in—and look at Harper. “You were right.”
My phone rings in my hand. My mother’s number is displaying on the screen. Even though I generally just put her to voice mail to avoid a lecture on how I’m screwing up my life, her timing is perfect.
“I was right about what?” Harper asks.
I head to the door and pull it open. Before stepping outside, I glance at Penn. The bastard is smirking.
“He’s trouble,” I say, and step out into the morning sun.
CHAPTER THREE
PENN
Are you just going to stand there drooling like a puppy dog, or are you gonna say something?” Harper elbows me in the side.
I drag my eyes from the doorway and look at her. “What do you want me to say? Who the fuck was that? Because that’s all I can think about right now.”
Harper laughs as she watches my reaction to the woman who just gave me an instant case of blue balls.
Tight T-shirt with an eighties band emblazoned across “more than her fair share” breasts.
Eyes that are so dark I can’t even tell what color they are.
And a smile that is like crack to my veins—if I knew what doing crack was like.
“No, for real,” I say. “Who is she, Harp?”
“Actually, she’s my niece. Her name is Avery Perry.”
I pivot to face her, my jaw dropping for her amusement. “You’ve been holding out on me?”
“I’m sorry. Am I supposed to give you a breakdown of all of the members of my family?”
“If they look like you, yeah.” My jaw springs back to a more normal, less shocked position. “With pictures, if you can spare them.”
“You’re awful.”
“Have I not always told you that you’re a hottie?” I tease.
“I could be your mother. I’m . . . older than that, even. I’m ten years older than Avery’s mother, who is my sister.”
I plop in her chair. “Well, I have nothing against cougars. Just saying.”
“I don’t know what I’m going to do with you.” Despite her best attempt at pretending she’s not flattered, she is. Her cheeks give her away.
Swiveling back and forth in the chair because I know it drives her crazy, I wait. Harper has been cutting my hair for as long as I can remember. I’ve learned a thing or two about her over the years—one being that she likes to talk. A lot. If I give her enough time, she’ll tell me everything I need to know about her niece without me even having to ask.
She busies herself organizing shampoos until, like clockwork, she can’t take it anymore.
“She’s single, you know. In case you care,” she says with a practiced nonchalance.
Bingo!
“Of course I care. Did you see her ass?”
“Stop that,” she says, trying to take a swat at me.