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Ar.
A.
A waterfall of soft sounds, flowing over my tongue, darting through my brain, tripping me every time I tried to walk away from obsessing over her.
Elara.
How could I break free?
This very moment—as I toiled on the tree house, knee-deep in wood shavings and sweat—she was just next door, tantalizingly close.
Somehow, miraculously, I'd managed to avoid her since we met at O'Neil's. Dad and I had been finishing up a job on the pier by the waterfront. Well, job wasn't exactly the right word for it. You got paid for a job. Dad noticed that there was some rust damage to the pier and decided that we were going to fix it. Normally, I'd have balked at unpaid work, but the distraction was a godsend.
If not for that fucking pier, I'd have been holed up in my trailer, furiously jerking off to thoughts of Elara, desperate to exorcise her from my weak-ass brain. It was like being possessed. Never, in my thirty-four-year-long life, had any attraction hit me this hard. I felt genuinely sick. I couldn't eat, couldn't sleep. The world didn't make sense anymore. From the moment I woke until I passed out from exhaustion, I wondered what she was doing, crazily hoping she might be thinking of me too.
As if.
"Focus, Cole," I chided myself. "Get these nails hammered."
My hands ached from the work, but I had to finish this tree house before the girls returned on Friday. I wanted them to see me as a man of my word. I refused to let my crush on Elara derail me.
That's right. I'd admitted it to myself. I had a crush. A big one.
But I was stronger than a crush. I could crush my crush. I'd been a Navy SEAL, for fuck's sake—forged in hardship, tempered by the sea. No way would I let some damn hormones conquer me.
"It's just chemicals," I muttered, lining up another nail. “Probably some sort of midlife crisis.” Honestly, I was shocked my clunky old body even remembered how to produce the hormones of lust. It had been that long.
The memory of her spilling coffee on her top at her bar flashed through my mind, making my heart pound. Distancing myself from renovating her bar was the right call—too close, too personal, too damn dangerous.
Having her trailer next to mine was torture enough. Now and then, the smell of freshly baked pastries drifted on the breeze, enveloping me like a warm hug, making it impossible to concentrate. My traitorous mind conjured an image of Elara in her kitchen, wearing nothing but an apron as she bent over to slip a tray of treats into the oven. My cock throbbed in my pants, suddenly heavy between my legs. I clenched my jaw, willing myself under control.
"Get your head out of the gutter, Cole," I growled. Maybe I should just cave and take a break, head inside to rub one out. Get her out of my system, at least for a little while. But how could I purge her from my thoughts when—
A click from Elara's trailer made me whip my head around just as I swung the hammer. "Damn it!" I cursed, missing the nail and smashing my thumb. I shook my hand, pain throbbing in time with my frustration.
"Hey, Cole!" And there she was, right on cue.
I turned to face her, painfully aware of the pressure in my pants. "Elara."
"Nice tree house!"
I shifted uncomfortably. "Not done yet."
"Sorry to disturb you."
"What's up?"
Besides my cock.
"I've been baking." My breath hitched when I saw that she was wearing an apron. Obviously, she had clothes on underneath it, but still. It didn't help that her toned arms were bare and her hair was tied up in a messy bun, revealing her delicate neck. I could almost taste the sweat on her skin, the heady scent of her perfume mixed with the aroma of fresh pastries. Apparently, I had a thing for bakers.
I swallowed, my throat desert-dry. "Somethin’ smells good."
Oh, Jesus. What was I talking about?
"Oh good! Hey, can I ask a favor? Would you mind tasting what I've made? It won't take long."
Definitely say no. Don't spend time alone with her.
