But there she is again—Holly—bent over my workbench like she owns the damn place, hair tied up in some lazy knot, wearing one of those ribbed tank tops that hugs her just a little too tight. Her jeans are worn in all the right places, and her boots are scuffed like she’s not afraid to get her hands dirty. I think of what the guys said yesterday–how Slate just had afeelingthat Emma was for him. Did it feel like this? Like losing her might leave a heart-shaped hole in my chest?
Holly’s humming some off-key holiday tune and organizing my drill bits.
Wrong.
She's reorganizing my drill bits.
I lean against the doorway, arms crossed over my chest, watching her from the shadows. “You trying to give me a heart attack?”
She jumps a little, spins around with a cocky smile that doesn’t match the innocent act. “Relax, mountain man. Needed something to do while Josie naps and they were a mess. Youhad a quarter-inch bit jammed in the five-eighths slot. That’s criminal.”
“They were organizedmyway,” I growl, pushing off the doorframe and walking toward her slowly. She doesn’t flinch—just plants her hands on her hips and tips her chin up like she’s daring me to argue.
Hell. I admire the nerve.
“Your way is chaos,” she says sweetly. “I upgraded you.”
“You don’t upgrade a man’s workshop without permission.”
“Oh, is that how it works?” She bats her lashes. “Should I go unstack the lumber you left leaning against the bandsaw too?”
I stop right in front of her, close enough to smell the coconut scent of her shampoo. She doesn’t move, just cranes her neck to keep her eyes locked with mine.
“Don’t test me, sunshine,” I murmur. “I’ve got a whole list of rules, and breaking them comes with consequences.”
“Oh?” Her tone lifts, flirty and dangerous. “Like what? You’ll reorganize my sock drawer in retaliation?”
I smirk. “No. I’d bend you over the workbench and remind you exactly who’s in charge of this shop.”
That wipes the smile from her face—but not in the way I expect. Her lips part slightly, and her breath hitches, just enough to give her away.
Gotcha.
But she recovers fast. Too fast.
“You talk a big game, Jack.” Her voice drops, smoky. “But I’m not convinced you’ve got the follow-through.”
I step in closer, backing her up until her hips hit the edge of the bench. My hands go to the surface on either side of her, caging her in. Her chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths.
“You really wanna test that theory?”
Her eyes flash. “Maybe.”
My gaze drops to her mouth. Full. Pink. Smart. Dangerous.
I should walk away. But something about her keeps digging under my skin, like a thorn I can’t pull out. Familiar. Warm. Wild. And so goddamn tempting.
Instead of kissing her—which is what I want—I back off with a slow smirk. “Good to know.”
She lets out a breath, annoyed. Flustered. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet, you’re still here.”
She shakes her head, that smile curling her lips again. “Because I’m not a quitter. And because your coffee machine is better than mine.”
“Damn right it is.”
We work in silence for a while—me planing a slab of walnut for a new commission, her sanding down one of the reclaimed beams I pulled out of a burned barn last spring. She’s good with her hands. Focused. Knows when to shut up and when to sass. Which, annoyingly, is almost never.
