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He sighed. “It’s the age bracket. These are boys. They think they’re men, which is what makes it worse.”
The kid passed us again, whipped off his hat, and grinned at me. “MissCharlotte.”
When his eyes dipped down to my legs and slowly back up, Burke leaned forward in his chair.
“Don’t you need to get back to work?” he growled.
“This is ridiculous.” I sighed.
“I agree.”
I kicked at the side of his big, dumb foot. “I meant you. That kid is sweet and harmless, within a decade of my age. If he finds me attractive, then I’d say he has excellent taste.” I tilted my head. “A snowball’s chance in hell of anything happening, but excellent taste nonetheless.”
Burke glanced up at me. “Not your type?”
“Nah. I prefer them with a bit more ...” I paused, because there was no way for me to finish that statement without sounding like I might be describing him. “Life experience” is what I settled on. “I can’t be teaching him everything, you know?”
Burke hummed.
What a load of shit, honestly. I wasn’t entirely sure that a moth wouldn’t fly out if I opened my legs in front of a man. There could be cobwebs. Creaky joints. Who knows?
I didn’t want anyone young or inexperienced.
When it was dark and I was alone in bed, I thought about big hands and a bigger body pressing me to the mattress, the man to whom they belonged telling me what he wanted to do to me.
My neck started to sweat, and I waved a hand in front of my face. “Come on, let’s go tile shopping.”
“Why do I have to go?” Burke asked. “Isn’t it great that I trust you to pick everything?”
“Burke.”
He sighed, closing the book over his chest. With a groan, he stretched out his legs.
I had to pinch my eyes shut because I was getting these horrible flashbacks of what he’d looked like in the bathroom. The carved muscles. The light dusting of dark hair over his chest. The thin line of it down his flat stomach.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Meditating,” I lied.
“Liar.”
I sighed. “Come on. You’re doing no good here.”
“Who’s to say I’m going to do any good with you? I’ve never picked house finishes, and I’ve definitely never done it for a house that’s supposed to look like it’s a couple hundred years old.”
I reached down and tugged on his arm, but it was like trying to move a giant, grumpy rock. “If you come with me, I’ll let you pick what we watch tonight.”
His head jerked up. “NoAntiques Roadshow?”
“Cross my heart, hope to die.”
He jumped up. “Sold.”
Chapter Fifteen
CHARLOTTE
Expectations are a fickle, fickle bitch.
