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“I do. I never get to do normal stuff like that, and I miss it.”
“What do you mean, you never get to do this kind of stuff?”
“I’m always working. If I need a bookshelf, some designer orders it, and it shows up.”
“Yeah, that’s called awesomeness.” She stomps to the kitchen and comes back with two bottles of water because, again, she has the heat turned way up. “Should I feel sorry for you that you don’t get to do menial labor?”
“Not at all. But you should let me help you build this shelf. C’mon.”
Grabbing a pair of kitchen shears, PJ starts cutting the tape on the box until it falls open, revealing a lot of pale wood shelves and larger pieces. She picks out a single sheet of paper and turns it back to front and back again.
“Oh, great. No words. Just pictures.”
“I doubt it’s that hard.”
Squinting at me again, she shakes her head. “Do you understand what you just agreed to?”
“Yeah. It sounds fun.”
She steps over the box and rests the back of her hand against my forehead. “You don’t feel feverish. So you really want to do this?”
“Yes.”
She shrugs and hands me the piece of paper. “Suit yourself.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re not much closer to a completed pair of shelves, but we’ve finally figured out what the pictures mean.
PJ holds the two vertical pieces while I use the wrench to fasten the upper piece between them. It forces me to stand directly in front of her. Even though I’m a good foot taller, I’m still close enough that I smell the lemony shampoo she uses.
“Got it. Let me do that bottom one, and it should stand in place. We’re nearly there,” I say, grabbing a large chunk of wood with cutouts for two drawers we’ve yet to build.
She looks at the floor behind me. “I don’t want to burst your bubble, but there’s a second one still in the box.”
“I know.” I twist the wrench until the screw is tight and the shelf stands on its own. Then, I step back to admire our work. She’s right—we still have a ways to go. “You’re good at this. Are you some kind of DIY queen disguised as a pretty publicist?” She flinches at the compliment, but like hell am I taking it back. Seeing her cheeks blaze pink is worth my own discomfort at revealing how attractive I find her.
“Um, you know. I do some little projects.”
“I like a woman who isn’t afraid to follow instructions.” Her cheeks heat to a fiercer shade of pink as my brain trips over itself, trying to figure out how I managed to turn bookshelves into a sexual invitation. “How about we take a dinner break?”
I should not be asking her to have dinner with me, but Archer already told me he’s busy entertaining some investors tonight, so my evening is free. I reason that we both just need sustenance if we’re going to keep working on the bookshelves, but my real motive is to spend more time with her.
“Sure. I can order something. What do you feel like?”
“Can we drive somewhere? I never get to drive.”
Her head whips around so fast that her features are a blur. “What do you mean? Oh, ‘cause you have a chauffeur?” She rolls her eyes.
I feel like the asshole I apparently am. “Well, mostly because I ride an electric bike to work. But then, yes, when I go to a function, I usually have a car service so I can work in the car on the drive.”
“Oh.” Her expression softens. “You really work a lot, don’t you?”
I nod. “Pretty much all my waking hours.”
She grabs my hand and leads me to the kitchen, shaking her head while muttering something that sounds like, “You need more than two weeks off.”
In the kitchen, she points me to a chair at her kitchen table, then changes her mind and leads me to the living room couch. “Sit here. Don’t move.”
She leaves me there and returns a moment later with a full, uncorked bottle of cabernet and two glasses. “Let’s start with this. You’re at a winery for two weeks. You need to be sweating wine by the time you leave this place. Or at least knowledgeable of every vintage we have.”
