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I hear her curse before I even hit the landing to my floor.
“Why the hell is this so damn difficult?” Cassandra says loudly.
“Because you need to use a screwdriver,” I reply from the doorway, watching her struggle to assemble what looks like a bookshelf.
She screams, holding tightly to her chest with one hand while wielding a butter knife in the other.
“What the hell dude?” she yells. “You’ll give me a heart attack.”
“Sorry,” I say, chuckling, holding both my hands in the air.
“Whatever,” Cassandra mumbles, returning to her futile task.
“Do you need some help with that?”
She glares at me. “No,” she says sarcastically. “Can’t you see how easy this is?”
Shaking my head, I leave her to her own devices and head over to my apartment where I grab my toolbox and a beer.
“Move over, woman,” I say as I walk into her apartment. “Let me do this before you break something.”
Just then, Tyler makes a cooing sound over the monitor she has set up on the arm of the couch. She glares at me as she moves out of the way and toward her son.
“You should thank him for saving your ass. I hate men telling me what to do.”
A chuckle escapes me as her ass sashays away from me. Now that she isn’t a sobbing mess with a screaming child I can actually appreciate her. She is a beautiful woman.
Short and curvy, her black hair piled on top of her head in that messy nest that women often do. I’ve seen a hint of pink peeking out through the black and wonder how much color she actually has in there.
Assembling the shelf is faster than I thought it would be.
“Wow.”
“I know right,” I reply. “If you have the right tools the job goes so much faster.”
“Kiss my ass,” she sasses. “I’m not a handyman.”
Looking up from my spot beside the shelf my gaze travels up her tanned, toned legs, over her tiny jean shorts, across her flat stomach peaking out beneath a baby pink halter top, her substantial chest, and finally stops on her makeup-free face.
“Is there anything else that needs assembly?” I ask, my voice gravelly.
She throws her head back and laughs. Fuck, that’s sexy. How the hell am I this attracted to a woman holding a baby?
“Only about a hundred more things.”
“I’ll make you a deal then,” I say. “You get the beer and pizzas and I’ll assemble whatever you want.” Standing up I wipe my hands on my jeans.
She looks at me skeptically. “Why would you help me?”
“My dad died when I was young,” I say honestly. “My mom raised me and my four brothers all by herself. But once a month, Mr. Murdoch from down the street came over and did all the little DIY stuff she needed help with. She always paid him with beer and pizza.”
“You assume there isn’t a man in my life,” she says with another glare.
“I assume,” I say, taking a step closer to her, “that no man worth his salt would let his woman struggle on her own for a month. That a real man wouldn’t leave his son to cry through the night but would be there to help his momma. And I know that if you have a man in your life, he sure as shit would not let the neighbor assemble your furniture with you wearing those shorts.”
“What’s wrong with my shorts?” She stares down at her body.
“Not a damn thing,” I mumble, looking at her legs once more. “So do we have a deal?”
