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Dean waved to Blake as he drove away. When his dark gaze focused on hers once more, she became aware that they were alone on the street, a hundred feet from her bedroom.
“Well, I better get back,” he said.
“Dean . . . ” She placed her hand on his arm to stop him from walking away. “Thank you for what you did. I appreciate it, I really do.”
“But?”
But I’m starting to think I might like you.
Actually, it was more than a notion. She had spent most of the day catching herself watching him. The muscles in his arms straining against his T-shirt as he carried wood. Tiny beads of sweat giving his tan skin a sheen that was nearly as hypnotizing as his smile—when someone coaxed one from him.
It wasn’t just her attraction to him, though. It was the way he had taken the time with the kids to show them how to use a tool or when he’d called Tyler to check on his dog. That he’d carried in all the coffee mugs and started washing them without being asked, and even when she’d told him to leave them, he’d just finished up and set them in the drying rack. That he held the door for her and Daisy, and at one point, when she’d hammered her thumb, he’d cradled her hand in his so gently, examining the bruised digit. For a split second, she’d thought he would try to kiss it and make it better, and when he hadn’t, she’d been disappointed.
Which was proof enough that she was in big trouble.
“But you’ve done enough. You don’t need to come back tomorrow; I can finish the porch.”
“I like to finish something once I start,” he said curtly.
“And I appreciate that, but I’m sure you have better things to do than to waste your day off coming over here and working. Really, I—”
Before she knew what he was doing, his hand shot out and caught the back of her neck gently, bringing her closer. “I am trying to be your friend.”
Violet was stunned and a little defensive at his dark tone. “So you’ve said, but I’m sorry that I have trust issues. Most men don’t paint your house unless they want something.”
His gaze glittered at her in the afternoon sunlight like stars flashing in the night sky, and it was so arresting, she couldn’t move.
“I’m trying here, Violet, but you’re making it as hard as possible to be a good guy.”
“Why, because I don’t just take you at your word?” She could hardly hear her own throaty question over the pounding of her heart.
“No, because you push my buttons so hard I want to haul you over my shoulder, take you inside, and strip away every defense in your arsenal with my hands and mouth.”
Violet held her breath, her body tight as a bowstring as she waited for him to make a move.
Instead, he released her and walked around the back of the truck. “Instead, I’m going to get in my truck and go back to work.”
Violet bit back the urge to tell him no, to ask him to stay. But it wasn’t a good idea.
Except her heart just wouldn’t let him leave. She knocked on his passenger-side window, and when he rolled it down, she said, “If you insist on coming over to paint, then I’m cooking you breakfast tomorrow.”
Dean’s dark eyebrows shot up, surprise written all over his face. But the twinkle in his eyes and the slow, sweet grin beat down all her doubts with a hammer. “What are we having?”
“You like sausage? Biscuits and gravy? Bacon and eggs?”
“Yes, yes, and who doesn’t?”
“Okay. See you tomorrow, then.”
“I can’t wait.”
DEAN WAS SITTING on his couch later that evening, scrolling through his DVR. He’d popped a couple of Tylenol when he got home, hoping the sheer exhaustion from working his ass off today would lull him into a dreamless sleep, but as he’d closed his eyes, they had come anyway, like a bad horror movie playing in his head. He’d gone back out to the living room to find something to hold the memories at bay.
Nothing looked good, and his mind started drifting, searching for any kind of happy thought, like his mother used to tell him to do as a child when he’d get a shot.
It wasn’t that surprising that his current happy thought had a pair of chocolate brown eyes and fiery red hair.
There was a knock at the door, which drove Violet’s face away as Dean jumped. Glancing down at Dilbert, who was lying with his head in Dean’s lap,
