Page 8 of Stud

Jimmy shoved him off. “I’d ask you to pass me a Gatorade, but you’d probably miss.”

“Wouldn’t want to watch you drink, anyway. Bet you dribble worse than on the field.”

Jimmy snatched a Gatorade from the grass, wrenched off the top, and chucked the bit of plastic at Emmett’s face. “Go suck a bag of dicks.”

Travis shot his hand in the air. “Just one is fine.”

We all tossed our heads back at that, except it sent my mind to the pretty little thing at the build earlier—her lips, my dick, and a whole lot of sucking. Damn. Not thoughts I should entertain while in workout shorts.

A sting of guilt followed the fantasy, cooling the heat stirring my blood. She may have been the opposite of what I was looking for in a woman, but she hadn’t warranted my gruffness today. I shouldn’t have coaxed her into showing up to volunteer wearing safety goggles and a face shield, either. She’d get laughed off the build, and I’d wind up feeling like an ass. Already did, as it stood.

We chugged our electrolytes, the evening air cooling the sweat on my skin. Emmett and Travis took off, leaving Jimmy and me, asses planted on a bench. We watched two kids playing Frisbee.

“How goes the wine world?” I asked.

His elbows fell to his knees, a content smile spreading. “Great. Really fucking great. Being back in Napa is better than I expected. Not sure who I was kidding, thinking I could live without the winery.”

I knocked my knee against his. “And Rachel?”

“Really fucking great.” His smile became something else entirely. “That woman is…everything.”

Envy lassoed my heart, the squeeze uncomfortable. I believed in love at first sight. In happily ever after. I believed in touches that healed and kisses that could cut a man down. I also craved the steadiness I’d lacked as a kid. Unfortunately, it wasn’t what I wound up with.

Jimmy picked a divot of grass off his sneaker. “Any headway on the divorce?”

Could I end world hunger? “One step forward, ten or twenty back.”

He made a pained sound. “If I’d married my ex, I’d be where you are now. Drowning—trying to cut our ties and come up for air. Not sure how you do it.”

“No choice, really. Tessa is smart and vindictive. She only knows how to win, and the word divorce isn’t in her vocabulary. To her, it’s a loss. A deficit.”

“Sounds like a transaction, not a relationship.”

“Pretty much sums up our last few years.”

His penetrating stare had me counting blades of grass. “You sure you don’t want to talk about it?” he pushed. “Things dragging like this can’t make it easy to move on.”

He didn’t know the half of it. It wasn’t just that Tessa didn’t like to admit defeat. She never lost. Ever. Other lawyers called her the Sleeper, after those cichlid fish who played dead, then struck their unsuspecting victims. She was angry, hurt that I’d ended things. Now she was intent on ruining my name and sucking me dry in the process. Her accusations that I’d cheated on her were ludicrous, but you almost had to admire her tenacity.

Once her teeth were in you, shaking her was a bitch.

“I appreciate the offer. I always appreciate the offer. But we have an autocratic judge on the case. Insists we keep things quiet until the divorce is settled. Lawyer agrees. Anyway, as far as I’m concerned, we’re done and over. The courtroom stuff is just semantics. I’ve moved on. I’m building a life. She’ll clue in eventually.”

Jimmy grunted, the two of us falling into the type of silence only old friends could abide. Hopefully I wouldn’t be broke by the time my divorce was settled. Hopefully I’d meet a woman who wanted to live her life, not count her billable hours. A partner who preferred dancing on the beach to driving in rush hour, walking barefoot in the grass to winning the rat race.

A flash of Ainsley’s polished toes and dainty feet filled that particular daydream until I schooled my thoughts, unsure why I’d crushed my Gatorade bottle. No point repeating the same mistakes.

Three

Eight letters for the discrepancy list made at the end of a construction job. Or what you’d like to do to the asshole who facilitates your ridicule.

P U N C H O U T

Ainsley

Sweat. Lots of sweat. Enough sweat to waterboard a platoon of soldiers. This was no delicate shine or attractive glow, either. I looked like I’d been sprinting in the Sahara, and it was all Rachel and Gwen’s fault. I may have mentioned I should get in better shape. Keeping Rachel’s superstitions in mind, I’d stayed mum about pursuing my birthday resolution and visiting the Habitat build, but my first volunteer session was tomorrow, ratcheting up my nerves.

Remembering how Owen had lifted and moved wood planks—forearms flexing, biceps bulging—had me flushing something fierce. It was also a reminder working on a Habitat site was no joke.