Page 19 of Fate, Interrupted

I reach a little further to check the housing, rising onto the balls of my feet because the ladder is one rung shorter than I need it to be. I lean too far.

It moves.

Not catastrophically. Not yet. A small sideways drift along the smooth concrete floor, maybe three inches, and I grab the display shelf with both hands and hold on and wait for it to stop.

It doesn’t. The torque of my hands on the shelf only serves to keep the ladder in motion. I watch, horrified, as the ladder swings around, leaving the security of the shelving unit and moving toward the center of the floor.

It stops.

I am fine. Completely fine. The situation is entirely under control.

I blow out my breath and start to climb down.

I glance over my shoulder, and I find Silas Coulter standing directly behind me with a tube of caulk in one hand and the other hand firmly on the offending ladder. Of course, his expression is one of pure amusement.

He’s close enough that I can feel the heat coming off him, which is an absurd thing to notice while perched on a teetering ladder in a hardware store, and yet here I am noticing it with my entire body. My skirt has ridden up somewhere in the commotion and I am suddenly, acutely aware of how much leg is currently visible from his vantage point, and how little I can do about it while still gripping a display shelf for dear life.

“Gotcha,” he says, showing off his pearly whites.

I look at him, trying to decide if I should turn all the way around and walk down the ladder steps like it’s a staircase—this sounds particularly dicey—or present my backside in my short skirt at a level that is squarely at his face.

I’m suddenly thankful I shaved and put on lotion this morning. Jesus, you vapid woman. I curse myself under my breath and look at him sternly.

“Okay, I got this. Can you back up?”

Silas accommodates me, trying to wipe the shit-eating grin off his face, only irritating me more.

He’s in a dark henley pushed to the elbows and jeans I have resolved not to have any thoughts about. That resolution lasts about two seconds.

I’m going to need a minute.

“The sign says employees only,” he says.

“The sign is a suggestion,” I say, stepping off the bottom rung with the dignity of someone who was never in any danger whatsoever. “I needed to check the pull chain.”

“From the top of a restricted ladder.”

“From an optimal vantage point, which the ground does not provide.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “And?”

“Grabby,” I say. “I’m not interested. The brushed nickel might work. I need to check the housing.”

“It has a remote. It won’t matter if the chain is grabby.”

I look at him properly then, because I haven’t focused on him for the last thirty seconds. It’s been five days—almost a week. Two days of handling the weekend. Now here he is standing in the lighting aisle holding caulk, and I want to say something that acknowledges the five days without making them significant.

I throw out the best that comes to mind. “You’re a long way from Coulter Enterprises.”

“Clement’s is on my route. I have guys here picking up supplies.”

I glance down the aisle and back. “And you needed to supervise the caulk situation.”

“I like to stay involved.”

“I can see that,” I say. “Seems odd that you’re here in my hardware store.”

“Your hardware store?”