His voice is low, rough as sandpaper, and it sends a bolt of heat straight down my spine. I swallow and lean against the workbench, careful to keep my tone casual.
"So, what is this masterpiece you're beating into submission today?"
He looks up. "Kitchen island. Hickory top. Custom cut joins."
"Sexy."
He arches a brow. "You’ve got a weird definition of foreplay."
"Oh, I haven’t even started."
Jack sets the mallet down, grabbing a towel to wipe the sweat off his neck. My eyes follow every move. Every drop of sweat. Every flex of muscle.
Get a grip, Holly.
But that’s impossible when he walks toward me, stopping a breath away, eyes dark and curious.
"You’ve been weird since the wedding last night."
I lift my chin. "Define weird."
"Tense. Quiet. Like you're hiding something."
I force a smile. "Maybe I’m just still recovering from your dance moves."
He doesn't laugh. He just steps closer, eyes locked on mine. "It wasn’t fake, you know."
"What wasn’t?"
"The kiss. The way you melted into me like your body remembered something you didn’t want your brain to admit."
My throat tightens. I look away.
"That’s ridiculous."
His fingers graze my jaw, coaxing my gaze back to his. "Is it? Because you’ve been looking at me like you’re waiting for the floor to drop. Like you’re scared."
I step back, heart hammering. "I’m not scared of you."
He narrows his eyes. "But you’re scared ofsomething."
I turn toward the door, needing space, needing to breathe.
"I’ve got things to do, Jack."
He grabs my wrist—not hard, but firm enough to stop me. "You’re not just some woman who answered a job ad. I can feel it. Hell, the kid?—"
I freeze. My spine stiffens.
"What about her?"
Jack’s voice drops. "She’s...she’s…" his eyes flick up and down my form, like he knows but can’t quite bring himself to find the words tosayit.
Silence pulses between us.
Then I say, too quickly, "I don’t want to talk about this right now."
His hand falls away from my wrist, but his eyes don’t leave mine. "Don’t lie to me, Holly."
