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“Morning.” James appears at the top of the stairs, his fingers working the buttons of his shirt. His hair is wet. His facial hair the perfect length. He looks deadly gorgeous, even without a smile, and I find myself looking away, my chest thrumming with something I’m less than familiar with.
“Morning.” I turn my attention to my things, crouching to find what I need to get started. “Have you decided what color you want your walls?” Your two walls?
“White.”
I grab my pot of spackling, some drop cloths, and my filling knife. “And I assume the same for the ceiling?”
“Yes,” he answers. I hear the sound of his shoes meeting the stairs as he makes his way down, and with every step he gets closer, my body tenses more until his shoes are in my downcast vision. “Tea?”
“No, thanks.” I stand, a bit too abruptly, not appreciating just how close he is, and collide with his unfathomably rigid physique. “Shit,” I murmur, staggering a few paces, dropping my knife and spackling. He catches my arm and steadies me, and I look at his fingers gripping me over my shirt. Over my scar. It tingles, and I turn my eyes up to his, finding him staring down at me, his face straight. The atmosphere is thick. “How did you know where I live?”
He doesn’t answer, just stares at me, and I move back, out of his grip, rubbing at my arm. And I wait. Wait for an answer. Wait for a break in his expression. I get nothing—nothing except a laser stare that is so obviously meant to unease me.
“I should get on. Have a good day at work.” Doing whatever it is you do. What do you do? I dip, collect my tools, and move past him, my eyes wide, my heart in my throat.
Why?
Why does he make me feel like this?
It’s a contradictory mix of exciting—because I’m feeling something other than unrelenting despair—and anxiousness because I feel like I am way out of my depth.
I make it to his office, albeit on annoyingly shaky legs, and glance around the impressive space, reacquainting myself with it. All of the screens on one wall have a different channel on, all news channels, and his desk is scattered with newspapers, his laptop open on the end. His chair looks like you could sleep in it. I wouldn’t be surprised if he does sleep in it.
I take in the walls and look up at the ceiling. It doesn’t look like he’s tried to paint anything. Frowning, I lay down the drop cloths in my working area and start stirring up the spackling until it’s smooth and consistent as I go to the wall. I locate the holes and take my loaded filling knife to the first, pausing halfway there when he strolls in. He doesn’t acknowledge me as he wanders to his desk, and my eyes follow him the whole way, my neck craning to see him. He moves a few things around and then tugs his trousers up at the knees and lowers to his chair, pulling his laptop forward.
What?
My arm starts to ache where it’s held in midair, and I slowly turn toward him, staring at him in question. Either he’s unaware or he doesn’t care. Something tells me it’s the latter. He eventually stops browsing his screen and looks across to me, tilting his head.
“What are you doing?” I ask, pointing my filling knife at him. His eyes switch from mine to the knife, an undetectable smile at risk of showing. But he won’t let it loose. He’ll control it.
“Working.” The fingertips of each hand meet, forming a steeple at his chin, and he rests back, looking comfortable. I’m anything but.
“Excuse me?”
His eyes dance. My fucking heart gallops. No. Please tell me . . .
“I work from home.”
I swallow.
“Every day,” he adds.
“Every day,” I murmur, scanning his office once again, for what reason I couldn’t tell you. “So you’re just going to . . . be here?” This close? All. The. Time.
“Is that a problem?”
“Yes.” It’s out fast, indignant and unstoppable. “I’ll need to put drop cloths over everything when I start painting,” I rush on.
“That wall is a good thirty feet away from me. If you manage to get paint on this table from there, I might question if I’ve got the right person doing the job.”
I can answer that for him. I’m the wrong person. He should have someone who can keep themselves together in his presence. I expect his options will be limited. “And the ceiling?” I ask, pointing up.
His head drops back, taking in the dozens of tiny spotlights, as if they’re new to him. His throat. The taut flesh of his throat. Fuck. This isn’t going to work. The resistance I’ll need not to admire him all day will kill me. “Why are you here, Beau?” he whispers.
