“Sorry,” he says again.
“You keep apologizing.”
“You keep wincing.”
“Sorry.”
“And who’s apologizing now?” Bo huffs and shakes his head.
That almost-smile. The corner of his mouth, there and gone. He sets the tweezers aside, grabs the antiseptic, and I stare at the ceiling while he cleans the scrape. Our situation is a little odd, to say the least. He is living in the guest house, but most of his time is spent with me on the ranch or renovating the house. It’s like almost living with someone.
We’ve traded glances, a few lingering touches when handing over coffee or tools, but always with careful distance. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want more. With Bo holding my calf and the way he helped me, I could almost believe he wants more too.
His thumb moves in a slow pass over the back of my calf, clearing debris, and every coherent thought I just had evaporates into thin air.
I look back down.
He’s looking up at me. He knows. The slight shift in his expression tells me he’s completely aware that my attention was on his touch, and the fact that he finds this even a little bit amusing is evident in the very small, very self-satisfied curve of his mouth. I playfully narrow my eyes at him.
“Almost done,” he says, nonchalantly. His voice is warm and low.
He finishes with the bandage and helps me up. We’re still quite close, and I can see him thinking behind his hazel eyes.
“Better?” he asks.
“Yes, better, thanks.” I mock bow in the small space. “My liege.” I laugh and push at his chest. He stumbles back, and the two of us turn to look at the hole in the floor. “Now what?”
Bo looks at the hole in the floor, places his hands on his hips, studying it. Rowdy has pressed himself against Bo’s leg and is staring at the hole, too.
“At least it’s the sink and not the tub,” Bo says. “The rot’s radiating out from the base of the vanity.”
“There’s probably a slow leak in the supply line.” I test the edge of the damage with my toe. “If I pull this back, I’ll be able to see it.”
Bo gives me a look. “You, have you replaced a subfloor before?”
“No. Have you?”
He crouches and presses his palm flat against the subfloor a few inches from the damage. “The wood’s damp, but the joist feels okay. This might not be as bad as it looks.”
“Or it’s worse.”
“Or it’s worse,” he agrees. He stands and looks at me. “And to answer your last question, yes. I helped Anthony do a subfloor once, before I enlisted. I remember most of it.”
“Most of it.”
“Enough of it.” A pause. “You have YouTube?”
Which is how we end up twenty minutes later, sitting on the hallway floor outside the bathroom, my laptop balanced on my knees, Bo sitting close enough that I can hear him breathe. He leans forward to zoom in on something on screen, and I lose the thread of whatever the man in Ohio is explaining about subfloors.
Rowdy is draped across Bo’s feet, his chin on the floor, glancing up at us every so often.
“Back to that part,” I say, pointing at the screen.
The Ohio man repeats what he said, and we continue.
“Okay,” Bo says. His voice rumbles low near my ear. “Let’s pull the vinyl, cut out the damaged section, fix the leak, sister the joists if they need it, lay the new subfloor, and screw it down.”
“How long?”
