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“Let’s get this thing framed up and then I’ll throw dinner on the grill,” I say, digging out the box of screws Latham picked for me in the hardware store.
“Wow, dinner? Will it be poisoned?” he asks as he continues to pet my dog, the corners of his lips turning upward.
Why am I suddenly really jealous of my dog? I’m sure it has nothing to do with the fact his large hands are rubbing across her belly, my puppy’s tongue hanging out of her mouth and her eyes practically rolling back into her head while she gets a rubdown.
Stupid hormones.
Pushing them out of my mind, I grab the sides and start to bring them into position, reaching for one of the clamps. Just as I connect with one, a warm hand wraps around mine, sending bolts of electricity coursing through my body, landing firmly between my legs. My panties are suddenly worthless.
“Let me grab that, Sweetheart,” he whispers, towering over my like a giant on steroids. My body starts to react in ways I wish it wouldn’t, at least when it comes to the Devil, yet I can’t seem to control it.
I don’t even call him out on his term of endearment, mostly because I’m not sure actual words would come out of my mouth. My brain is short-circuiting, my throat dry, and my head reeling from his touch. Plus, there’s the fact I actually kinda like it when he calls me that.
Wait, what?
No.
No, I don’t like it.
I’m no one’s sweetheart, especially Latham’s.
My mind is at war as we work side by side for the next hour. It’s hard to hate him when he’s so damn helpful. He assists by cutting the little triangles I use to keep the sides together, holding them in place while I screw. He holds the level, but only checks the accuracy after I’ve settled on the position. He remains quiet while I work, which is completely un-Latham-like. I even catch him humming along to one of the songs on the radio, but as soon as I call him out on it, he turns cherry-red and refuses to acknowledge me. Before long, the doghouse is completely assembled, and I couldn’t be happier with the work.
“Nice job,” he says, digging another beer out of the cooler and handing it to me, both of us standing beside the project to admire our handiwork.
“Thanks. I appreciate the help,” I reply, taking a drink from the bottle.
“Did you just compliment me? And your brain didn’t even explode!”
“Shut up or I’ll take it back.”
“You can’t take it back. No takebacks.”
“What is this, third grade? Of course I can take it back!”
Latham takes a step closer. “False!” he yells, rousing my puppy from her slumber once more. “No takebacks, I called it.”
“You called it after the takeback, though. That doesn’t count.”
He steps closer again. “It does count. My rules.”
I blink, suddenly realizing how very close he is. He’s standing directly in front of me, and I can smell the mixture of sweat and soap on his skin. His chocolate brown eyes are dark with little speckles of gold, and they have me pinned to where I stand. His lips curl into that stupid smirk, and suddenly, kissing him seems like the best idea I’ve ever had, which is crazy, considering I don’t even like the guy.
Okay, so maybe that’s not entirely true.
Anyway, I’m point two seconds away from going up on my toes and kissing that smirk right off his face when I feel two paws on my thigh and a cold nose on my hand.
Saved by Snuggles.
I glance down, breaking the contact with our eyes, and pet my dog’s head. The moment she’s satisfied with some attention, she turns to Latham and demands the same from him. “Yeah, we see you,” he says to Snuggles, getting down on one knee and giving her proper attention. Her tongue lops out of her mouth as she stares up at him with lust in her eyes. I’m pretty sure my dog has a crush.
And what’s not to like?
He’s tall, gorgeous (though I’m not really admitting that out loud), and smells amazing even when he’s a little sweaty. So I can see why she’s all googly-eyed. “I have an idea,” he says, not moving an inch out of my personal space. “You said something about dinner, right?” He barely waits for my head nod response before continuing. “Why don’t you go up and get started, and I’ll finish cleaning up the mess. I take it you’re going to paint it?” he asks, glancing over my shoulder to my nearly finished doghouse. I didn’t use good enough wood to stain it; something he definitely would have noticed.
Finally, I take a step back. “Yes. How do you take your steak?”
He seems surprised by the question. “Medium-rare.”
