* * *
“Funny, I didn’t think you’d be good at this,” I say after Sawyer finishes rolling the last stripe of pink on the east-facing wall. He’s been in here four hours with me, prepping, painting, and pretendingnot to check me out. Or maybe that’s just what I’ve been doing with him.
He shoots me a look. “And why’s that?”
“Oh, because you seem like someone who prefers the efficiency of hiring out for manual labor rather than rolling up your sleeves. Major upper-management vibes,” I remark.
“Guess you’re wrong. These sleeves are rolled up.” He nods to the cuffs, and damn, that’s stupidly attractive too. Because his forearms are on display. He unknotted his tie as well, and tossed it behind the counter at Dog Tails. And yes, he looked unfairly hot doing it. But the best way to deal with all this infuriating attraction to a man who once thought I was stalking him is to ignore it completely.
I glance away so it’s not obvious I’m into forearms. “I’m just saying—I’m shocked.”
“Be prepared to be more shocked then. Because I am all kinds of capable,” he says as he puts the roller down.
With a small angled brush I fill in around the trim, glancing in the window to catch sight of Captain playing rope toy tug-of-war with a Chihuahua.
“Pretty sure you’re the only person who paints in a nice shirt,” I say, eyeing his checked button-down.
He gestures triumphantly toward the shirt he’s wearing. “Proof I’m handy. I didn’t get paint on it.”
“Oh, those are fighting words,” I say, waggling the paintbrush.
He rolls his eyes. “Oh, we’re doing that?”
I step closer, even though I’m not in getting-paint-on-him territory. “Maybe. You afraid?”
“Do I look scared?”
“A little,” I taunt, inching closer, maybe a foot away now. I brandish the brush again.
He sighs like this is all too much for him. “You gonna come for me, Chloe?”
I stop.
He freezes. He must hear it at the same moment I do. The accidental innuendo.
I clear my throat. “Nah. Your shirt is safe for now,” I say, then spin around, suddenly hot under my shirt.
I dip my brush again, hyper-focused on the next wall I need to work on.
With supreme focus too, he dips a new roller into the tray of white paint.
I brush the corners. He tackles another coat near the floorboards. I stop for a second, fanning myself. It is hot in here. It’s late June after all, and the windows are open so we can get some air on the paint. When I return to my work, he’s a few feet away, rolling with intense diligence. After a few minutes, he exhales, mutters something under his breath, and sets his roller down.
“Fuck it,” he says, then lifts his hand to the first button of his shirt.
Oh.
Ohhh.
There goes the second.
I’m totally not watching. I swear I’m not. Except my eyes are glued to every movement as he unbuttons all the way, taking it off. He’s down to a white undershirt, and it is tight.
It hugs his chest, clings to his biceps, and outlines his abs in ways that make me forget what I was doing. It’s like suit-hot and handy-hot had a baby, and it was this moment.
He bends—slowly—and slides his roller through the white paint. Smooth and steady. It’s basically foreplay with paint supplies.
Does he know? Is he putting on a show for me?
