“You aren’t listening, I don’t want you—”
Goldie jerks at a crash from inside the house. Adrenaline shoots through me, and my hackles start to rise.
“What was that?” I ask, already pushing her aside with an arm, walking straight into the house. I try to ignore how soft and warm her body is against my forearm, or the jumble of nerves that wriggle in my chest at the contact.
“Not again,” she grumbles, moving my arm away so she can walk ahead of me. Senses on full alert, I follow her into the living room. Despite the crumbling mess of the exterior, the front room smells of lemon cleaner.
I note the sage green cream wallpaper catches and holds the warm light from the sparkling clean bay window. Two red and white plaid wingback chairs are set on either side of the stone fireplace that has been scrubbed until it gleams. A bookcase crammed with books is set invitingly off to the side, most of them thrillers and romance books with broken spines.
Apart from the sweltering heat of the house that made it feel like being inside an oven, the room begs to be sat in and enjoyed for a weekend of coffee and relaxation. A pang goes through me that I can’t identify.
Pushing that aside, I stay on Goldie’s heels as she goes to a massive picture that lay face down on the ground clearly having fallen from the wall where long stickers flap half off it.
“Witchtits,” she curses, trying to pry her fingers underneath to lift it.
I can only handle five seconds of her struggle before I push her aside, again ignoring the feeling her soft warmth inspires in me. Picking up the heavy piece with ease, I find it’s actually a mirror set in an ornate carved frame.
“Did you try to put this on the wall with stickers?” I ask, incredulous.
Her already full lower lip pouts out further. “I don’t want to ruin the wallpaper with nails.”
“This not only needs proper mounting with nails or screws, but it will also need anchors, so it doesn’t tear down the drywall,” I say, setting the piece against the wall.
Around the corner is a breakfast nook, where I find a table covered in various tools. They are old and rusty, but there is a lot here.
“What are you doing?” she protests as I dig into a half molded cardboard box full of screws, and wonder of wonders, find some mounts. Then I pull out an ancient power drill and its set of rusted bits.
“Putting this up properly so it doesn’t fall on you and crush you to death.”
Goldie sets her hands on her hips and huffs out an agitated breath as if uncomfortable with my presence. “I thought you came over to kill me. Why would you—”
Her words are drowned out by the high pitch screech of the drill. Every time she tries to speak, the drill interrupts her as I make holes in the wall before hammering in the mounts then working the screws in. I suppress a smile every time she’s silenced by the overpowering electric screams. In under ten minutes, I have the mirror back up and placed perfectly.
An itch gathers under my skin when I see a project I want to sink my teeth into. Goldie has made progress with this place, and clearly has an eye for design. With my help, this house would be flipped in no time.
Hell no. I do not want to help her. I do not want her to stay. Hopefully, this place grinds her down with problems until she gives up and sells.
Part of me doesn’t believe what I’m thinking.
Goldie steps forward, her fingers brushing lightly against the back of my hand. An unexpected shiver races up my spine, and I involuntarily pull back. The sudden distance between us feels simultaneously too great and not far enough.
“I could've done that myself,” she declares, though the uncertainty in her eyes betrays her.
“Seems to me you've got your hands full,” I comment, referencing the grime on her face and her tousled appearance.
She huffs, her cheeks puffing out in defiance. “Contrary to how even the men have been treating me at work all week, I don’t need a man. I don’t need you waltzing in here and acting like a knight-in-shining-armor.”
What men? A snake of something hot and angry writhes inside me as I think of other men doting on her. I shove the thoughts and the sensation down, refocusing on why I came over in the first place.
“And I don't need a neighbor bombing my porch with cakes, or to be interrupted by singing cookies. This makes us even.”
She rolls her eyes, exasperated. “Why can’t we just be friendly neighbors?”
The idea of being friends with this woman is repulsive to me. She’s pushy, perky, and an absolute pain in my ass.
Speaking of her ass, I don’t want that tempting rear anywhere near my place where my brothers pop in and out at random. The thought of her even being in the same room as my brothers is enough to make my blood boil. Their eyes would strip her like vultures circling an animal. They wouldn’t be able to stop themselves from wanting to know how it felt to run their hands along her soft, sun-kissed skin. They’d want to fill their hands with those full thighs and generous ass and kiss those pink lips until that ridiculous color is smeared all over their faces. The temptation to fill their hands with her invitingly generous breasts while planting feverish kisses up her neck would be unbearable. Their sole goal would be to see how her face screws up in pleasure and to find out what makes her eyes turn glassy and her jaw slack as they work her over.
I pull in a shaky breath, girding myself against the horrible, unappealing manner my brothers would treat this cream puff. Heat coils and sinks below my belt, causing an unprecedented stiffness.
