Also, he’d called me ma’am. Twice.
I was thirty-two, not eighty-two.
Although, looking at him, he was probably older than me. Early forties, maybe? Hard to tell with the general growly demeanor he had going on.
I forced my attention back to the lumber order, writing out a ticket. I had a business to run. Custom orders to fill. A crew to manage. I couldn’t afford to turn into a puddle of hormones just because Race Gentry had sent me an early Christmas present wrapped in flannel and bad attitude.
Except Crew hadn’t seemed like he had a bad attitude. Just... quiet. Guarded. Like a man who’d learned to keep everything locked down tight.
The walkie-talkie on my desk crackled to life.
“Boss, you got a minute?” Dale’s voice came through. “I need you to look at something with the custom order. Your new guy has some questions about the specs.”
My heart did an annoying little skip at the mention of Crew. And lower, my body clenched with want.
Get yourself together,I told myself sternly.You’re the boss. Act like it.
I grabbed the walkie. “Be right there.”
I stood, smoothing down my flannel shirt and brushing sawdust off my jeans. Time to be professional. Time to be the boss, not the woman having extremely inappropriate thoughts about a certain grumpy ex-soldier.
You can do this. Just don’t stare at his forearms. Or his hands. Or that beard. Or—okay, maybe just don’t look at him at all.
Great plan, Charlotte. Very professional.
The main floor was busy, the usual hum of machinery and voices filling the space. I made my way to the specialty section, where Dale and Crew were bent over a set of notes and wood samples spread across the workbench. Crew looked up as I approached, and those dark eyes locked on mine.
He was covered in sawdust—in his hair, on his shoulders, dusting his forearms where he’d rolled up his sleeves.
And sweet heavens above, those forearms. Thick with muscle, corded with veins, dusted with dark hair. I wanted to brush the sawdust off him. Feel those muscles under my hands.
So much for not looking at the forearms.
“What’s up?” I asked, forcing myself to focus on Dale instead of the way Crew’s shirt stretched across his broad chest. Instead of wondering what that chest looked like bare. If he had hair there. Scars. If his skin would be hot under my hands.
“The client wants crown molding to match these existing pieces,” Dale explained, gesturing to some wood samples and notes. “But the notes are a bit unclear on the profile. Crew noticed the measurements don’t quite line up with the samples.”
I moved closer to look at the notes, very aware that Crew hadn’t moved. That put us shoulder to shoulder—or rather, my shoulder to his bicep, given the height difference.
Even just standing next to him was overwhelming. I could feel the heat radiating off his body, could smell the sawdust and a faint hint of something else. Soap, maybe. Or just... him.
“Good catch.” I cleared my throat. “You’re right, these dimensions are off. We’ll need to call the client and clarify before we start cutting.”
“That’s what I figured,” Crew said, his voice that low rumble that seemed to vibrate through my chest and settle lower. Much lower. “Didn’t want to waste material on a guess.”
I glanced up at him, surprised—and immediately regretted it. Because this close, I could see the darker flecks in his eyesand that there was more silver than I’d first thought threading through his beard. I couldn’t help but notice the way his gaze dropped to my lips for just a fraction of a second before snapping back up.
And that look. That quick, hungry look sent heat flooding through me.
Did he feel it too? This pull, this attraction between us?
Or are you so desperately horny that you’re imagining things?
Probably the second one. That seemed more likely.
“You’ve done this before,” I managed, trying to focus on the work and not on how badly I wanted to feel that beard against my skin. “Custom millwork.”
It wasn’t a question, but he nodded anyway. “Built custom furniture and cabinets before I enlisted. Clients always think they know what they want until you show them the mock-up.”
