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I clear my throat. “Why isn’t Hank here helping?”
He should be here. He’s maintenance. He knows how to use a drill. He could have kept my mind out of the gutter.
“He’s still working on the shelters for the Belgians which I told him was more important. But the state of this sleigh? If we want to get bookings for the first snowfall, there’s no time to waste.” She pats her notebook, the little one she used to take notes when I showed her how I wanted the horses checked. “I’ll make a diagram so I know how to put it back together, but I figured every piece will need sanding and painting. It will look so much better if it’s done piece by piece.”
It will. It’s also a lot more work than giving it a gloss over, but I love that Molly doesn’t shy away from it. Not only that, but her energy isn’t deflated. The work, this project, seems to energize her. Or maybe it’s just her default sunny self and she only has this one mode. Still, I can’t help but think what a good quality it is. One I’d do well to have.
“Which bit do you think you need?” I ask.
She takes a bigger one out than the one she’s got. “This.”
She grips the bit between her index finger and thumb, and when I go to take it, the pads of my fingers make contact with her soft, warm skin, and I know, I fucking know, I better stop jerking off to her before this raging attraction, that can even make my dick twitch at the touch of an index finger, gets out of hand.
I’ve deprived myself for a good number of years. Mostly, it’s been okay, because nobody really caught my eye. But Molly? She catches my eye and then some. And every time I try not to like her, she goes and does something like care for Romeo, or wield a drill, or hang her ass in my face.
I grab the drill off the workbench and show her how to replace the bit. Like usual, she watches to learn. Another thing I admire.
The pit of my stomach works hard, like I’m hungry, but I know it’s not for food. I hand Molly the drill.
“Thanks for the lesson, chief. I can do that.” She smiles.
I offer a closemouthed grin in return.
She receives it and smiles even brighter, and my heart thumps, telling me to pay attention, but I want to think of something other than her pink, full lips and pearly teeth I’d like to slide my tongue between.
She glances at the sleigh. “So, you think with me, Hank, and maybe Bobby we can finish this sleigh off in time for November snow? People are in full-on Christmas mode by then a lot of times. I suppose I can always use a stock photo on the website and book for mid-November.”
I consider the twelve-person sleigh. That’s a hell of a lot of panels. We probably have a couple of weeks though before snow, and my capacity for work, and on no sleep, is high. And my excitement for this project is surprisingly high, too. The beat-up classic sleigh gets my blood pumping.
“Yeah. We can handle it.”
“We?” she asks.
“Yeah. We.” I take off my coat and roll up my sleeves. “Your bottom line is my bottom line.”
I’d love our bottom halves aligned.
“Thanks, Dash. You know you don’t have to help, but Hank being busy… Bobby said he’d come by in a bit.”
I grab a screwdriver off the workbench. I should go out to the toolshed and get another drill. But I don’t want to leave, not even for a minute. Maybe someone else will be here when I get back. And I don’t like someone elses.
We head to the back of the sleigh and set to unscrewing panels. We move in silence. The faint smell of her perfume hits me when a gust blows in from the open floor-to-ceiling barn doors. Her hair is up in a messy bun, and now the nape of her neck is the third place on Molly’s body I’d like to bury my face.
She catches me staring, but darts her eyes back to the next screw in the row she’s undoing. She swallows, and I watch the column of her throat work.
She considers what to say next. “So, Colt and Jolie tell me this has only been a luxury ranch for four years?”
“Mm-hm.” I ignore the cramp in my hand, there only because I was simping too hard to go to the toolshed.
“Why did you stop ranching? Your cattle is with the Danes now from what I understand?”
Why is it that Molly’s small talk is actually big? I don’t like talking about the one thing that makes me less of a cowboy. And that I’m a big hypocrite, too. I ranched with Dad for the longest time and never thought too much about what was happening to those cattle. But after Dad passed, I didn’t want anything to do with it. I eat burgers and steak. It doesn’t make sense, but neither does a vegan buying their cat tuna fish.
I rub my hand. “Couldn’t look the cows in the eyes anymore,” I admit.
It’s the first time I ever have admitted it. Even though my family knew something was up when me, a people-hating introvert, proposed a hotel on our land, I never really explained to them why I pushed for it.
She leans against the back of the sleigh. “I like that about you.”
