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“It’ll only take a minute,” I say, interrupting his excuse, not giving him the opportunity to leave. “I have the permits. You’re going to need them to get started tomorrow.” I turn around and walk to the counter.
I stop.
“Shit!” I glance at the kitchen table. “Where did I put them?” I spin around.
“I don’t know,” he says, closing the door behind him.
His eyes pace my small apartment, pausing at the mess on the living room floor.
I lift a finger. “I’ll be right back.”
I hustle to my bedroom and snag the permits from the dresser.
“Here they are.” I wave them in my hand, reentering the room.
He gives me a sideways glance. “What’s going on here?” His steady eyes move to the mess on the floor.
“Oh, my company furnished me with this apartment, but there’s nowhere for me to work. So I bought a desk on the internet. I just didn’t realize it was going to be a pain in the ass to put together. It’s a work in progress.”
He walks over to the problem-making wood, picks one up, inspects it, and then looks at the instructions. He fits the two pieces together as I had before his visit.
“Come here.” He nudges.
I set the permits on the sofa and move to him. If he’s offering to help, I’m taking it!
“Hold this one.” He indicates with his head. “Yeah, that’s it. Keep it against there.”
He holds the other piece and starts to screw it together.
“Okay. I’m not an idiot.” I laugh. “It takes two people to put the damn thing together.”
He glances at me with a small smile—the first I’ve seen on him.
It’s euphoric.
Twenty minutes later, unlike me, the desk is put together. He picks up the tools and sets them on the table.
His eyes finally meet mine. “Where is it going?”
“Over there.” I point, unable to look away, wanting to see that little smile once more.
When I have his full attention, when his view belongs to me, I don’t want to let it go.
Brett Daxon is definitely something I could be selfish with.
“Get on the other end.”
I go to my side. We lift and carry the desk to its destination.
“Thanks.”
“No problem.” He nods, sliding the tips of his fingers into the pockets of his jeans. Muscles pop and bulge in his defined arms, feeding my hungry eyes.
“I’m sorry.” My wandering eyes surge to his. “You came over to drop off the contract, and I’ve already put you to work.” I laugh, going to the sofa to grab the permits.
“I don’t mind,” he says, his calm voice taps up my spine to my heated neck.
I move toward him, holding out the permits.
