A smile tugged at my lips despite myself. “Truth.”
His eyes focused on my mouth when I smiled and it made me acutely aware of every inch of my body.
“Okay, I’ll call them now and get clarification,” I said quickly, needing distance before I did something monumentally stupid. “In the meantime—” I turned to Dale, grateful for the excuse to look away from those too-knowing eyes “—can you show him the Johnson project? That’s straightforward enough while we wait.”
“You got it, boss.” Dale grabbed the relevant paperwork and headed toward another workstation.
Crew didn’t follow immediately. He stood there, looking down at me with an expression I couldn’t quite read. Dark. Intense. His jaw working like he was fighting with himself about something.
“Something else?” I asked, proud that my voice came out steady despite the way my heart was racing.
His gaze traveled over my face slowly, thoroughly, and I felt it like a caress. Felt it in the sudden awareness of how small I felt next to him. How easily those big hands could lift me, hold me exactly where he wanted me.
Then he just shook his head. “No. Nothing.”
But the way he was looking at me—like he was imagining peeling off my clothes, like he was fighting the same attraction I was—suggested there was definitely something. Something he wasn’t going to say.
Or you’re projecting again. That’s also a strong possibility.
We stood there for a beat too long, the air between us charged with tension. Around us, the sawmill hummed with activity, but it felt like we were in our own bubble. A bubble where nothing existed except the pull between us, the want, the need.
I could see his pulse beating at his throat, could see the way his hands had fisted at his sides like he was stopping himself from reaching for me. Or maybe I was just projecting. Maybe I wanted him to feel this attraction so badly that I was seeing things that weren’t there.
God, I wanted him to reach for me. I wanted to feel those calloused hands on my skin. I wanted to know if they’d be gentle or rough. I wanted him to shove everything off that workbench, bend me over it, yank down my jeans, and—
Where did that come from?
I was the good girl. The responsible one. The one who always did the right thing, followed the rules, kept everything professional. And here I was fantasizing about being bent over a workbench like some kind of—
Clearly you need to get laid. Or therapy. Possibly both.
“I should—” I started, my voice embarrassingly husky.
“Yeah.” He stepped back, creating distance, and I could have sworn I saw relief and frustration war in his expression.
“So, you coming back tomorrow?”
His jaw clenched, and I watched something flash in his eyes—heat, want, conflict. Watched him fight with himself for a moment before answering. “Race sent me here to help. And I owe him. So yeah. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
I owe him.
Right. The debt. The obligation. The only reason he was here.
I ignored the small twist of disappointment in my chest. What had I expected? That he’d say something different? That the tension crackling between us meant anything to him beyond physical attraction—if he even felt that?
You’re an idiot, Charlotte Adams.
Grumpy as a bear, I reminded myself. Temporary. Here for Race. Nothing more.
Even if my body was currently screaming for more. Even if I was wet and aching and desperate for those hands on me.
“Good,” I managed. “That’s good. Did Dale tell you when we start?”
“Yeah.”
We stood there for another beat, neither of us moving. His eyes dropped to my lips again, and I watched them darken. He inhaled deeply, then leaned in just a fraction before he caught himself and stepped back.
And God, that almost-movement made my entire body clench with need.
