Page 6 of Making His Move

He’s so strong. Powerful. Ford is 6’7” of solid muscle with a teddy bear vibe. I could get used to this.

The object of my affection quickly enters the house carrying an armchair, as if it weighs nothing more than something he found in Barbie’s Dreamhouse. Ford looks at me for directions and sets it down on the spot I’ve marked with tape. Most of the furniture has been carried upstairs, delivered to their assigned rooms, and reassembled for my convenience.

Fortunately, they tolerated my fussiness and managed not to hold it against me. Despite my protests, they worked through the lunch hour and declined my invitation to provide pizza and drinks. I felt guilty they’d worked so hard, building a sweat from the combination of manual labor and the hot July sun. Ford insisted they continue working and promised to make it up to his crew tomorrow. Thirty minutes ago, when only items from Westchester remained, he sent Chuck and Fred home, leaving only him and Hank to finish the job.

“Where do you want this?” Hank strides through the front door carrying a small wooden bench I plan to use for the mudroom. I found it at an estate sale in Sleepy Hollow last year and spent a week sanding and revarnishing it to match a similar one I brought from my apartment.

“It goes in the small space by the back door, beneath the coat hooks,” I say, walking to the edge of the hall and pointing to the rear of the house. He nods and retreats down the hallway, careful not to scratch the walls.

While Ford returns to the truck to gather what remains, I step into the kitchen and examine the informal dining table they brought from storage. It’s solid walnut with a live edge—handmade and environmentally friendly.

I run my fingers down the jagged edges and marvel at the craftsmanship. I commissioned it a few months ago as a birthday present—from me to me. It was more money than I wanted to spend, but it’s one of a kind and worth the expense. I’m so enthralled by its beauty I fail to hear Ford enter the room.

“Do these go here?” He’s holding two dining chairs turned upside down over his shoulders. How does he do it? I couldn’t carry them more than a few feet. I quickly lose interest in the table and turn to the massive man in the tight t-shirt and formfitting jeans.

I nod, staring catatonically at his bulging biceps and sculpted pecs. “Yes, two on each side and one on each end. I can help you bring in the rest,” I stammer, ogling him like a starving woman transfixed by a warm piece of chocolate cake.

He places each chair on the opposite end and then lifts his gaze, seemingly waiting for my approval of their position. His deep-brown eyes meet mine, and I feel myself sway in my shoes, possibly swooning for the first time in my life. His full lips curve into a smile, and my knees buckle. Fortunately, I’m close enough to the table to hold myself steady and prevent my humiliation.

“Yes, that’s perfect.” I hardly notice the chair but nod to keep this from becoming more awkward than I’ve already made it. The only perfect thing in this house is him. How did he get so gorgeous? There’s no reason any man should rise to this level of handsomeness. It’s cruel and unfair.

“You have excellent taste,” he remarks, admiring my table. “I didn’t understand what theme you were going for, but now that I see it all together, it’s incredibly inviting. Elegant and cozy. That’s not an easy thing to achieve.”

My racing heart flutters. I’ve worked hard to put this house together, searching high and low for the right pieces to carve out a place that feels like a real home. I’m over the moon that someone noticed. “You think so?” I breathe, overcome with gratitude but fearing he’s only saying it to be nice. That happens all the time, but Ford doesn’t seem capable of dishonesty.

Of course, that’s just a hunch. I don’t know enough about men to truly discern honesty from dishonesty.

“You better believe I do. You’re only paying me to move furniture. The compliments are free.” He pauses, exhaling a shaky breath and averting his eyes before he continues. “I better grab the rest of your chairs. Our work is almost done, and we'll soon be out of your hair."

I struggle to speak. There are so many words trapped in my clenched throat—I don’t know where to begin. Have I made Ford feel like a nuisance? Socializing has never come naturally to me. But I don’t think I’ve been unkind to him. At least, I hope I haven’t.

Unwilling to let him think badly of me, I sprint toward the door, catching him as his feet hit the pavement. “There’s no rush. Thank you for everything you’ve done today. And I’m sorry if I got in your way.”

Ford tilts his head toward me, and his lips part into a mischievous smile. No doubt he senses my attraction and is amused by my shabby attempt at flirting. “You didn’t get in my way, Wren. I’ve enjoyed spending time with you.”

“You don’t have to say that,” I gush like a schoolgirl and lift my hands to cover my hot cheeks. This is so embarrassing. Since we met, this man has left me in a perpetual state of arousal, and I fear I’m making a fool of myself.

“It’s true,” he states emphatically, leaving no room for arguments or doubts. “You’re a nice girl, and I’m happy I could help you make this house a home. I’m sure your boyfriend will love it.”

My heart soars with premature glee. Is he saying that to be nice? Does he think I’m pretty and assume I have a man, or is he putting out feelers? Where the hell is Holly when I need her?

I shake my head and take two steps down, closing the distance between us but giving myself enough room to flee if this goes badly. “I don’t have a boyfriend.” I clasp my hands, squeezing them tightly to stave off the anxiety coursing through my veins. “I did. But he found someone else.”

I gasp with mortification. Why the hell would I say that last part out loud? I just made myself look like discarded trash to the most attractive man I’ve ever met.

“Found someone else?” He lifts his hand to his chin and scrubs his beard, angling his head as he thinks. “He must be a fool.”

I bow my head, too nervous to look him in the eye and secretly wishing I hadn’t taken this route. It’s not a sexy look. “It’s not a big deal. I’m an acquired taste, and he wanted someone more fun.”

I’m dying.For the love of God, stop talking.

Ford comes closer but leaves one step between us. At this angle, he's still a full head taller than me, and I find myself staring directly at his Adam’s apple. It’s hot. He’s hot. And good Lord, he smells fantastic. He’s so close I can practically taste the scent of his skin. He’s been sweating all day. How in the world does he still smell so good?

He places his thick finger beneath my chin and tilts my head, forcing me to look him in the eye. “I doubt the problem was you. Do you know what you need?”

“No,” I whisper, lost in the depth of his dark eyes.

“You need to find yourself a new boyfriend.”

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