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“I’m not a sleaze-bag.”
Rolling her eyes, Samantha directs me where to set the tub. I’ve barely finished when she barks her next orders.
Though it takes every ounce of my willpower, I resist the urge to ask who died and made her Queen of the Reunion. She’s done all the heavy lifting so far, I remind myself. This is the right thing to do.
“What next?” I ask after helping her position a collapsible platform in place to serve as a stage for the festivities.
She purses her lips, and my stomach instinctively clenches. “No, it’s not quite centered.”
I grit my teeth. “How much does it need to be moved?”
“About this much.” She holds her thumb and index finger a couple of inches apart.
“Is it really that noticeable?”
“I can fix it if you aren’t up to the task.”
I take another deep breath through my nose and lower myself to my knees. With a light grunt, I shove the platform, moving it almost exactly two inches. I turn to look over my shoulder, waiting for Her Royal Perfectionist to tell me I didn’t do it right.
Instead, I find Samantha looking somewhere other than the makeshift stage. I could be wrong, but I don’t think I am. I’d bet the commission off of my last deal that Samantha was just looking at my ass.
Her bright blue eyes lift up to meet my gaze. Her cheeks instantly flush at the realization she’s been caught. I have my answer.
Holy shit. Samantha Wingfield was just checking me out.
I arch an eyebrow. “Problem?”
“Nope.” Her cheeks turn an even darker, and all-too-appealing shade of pink. “No problem here.”
“Because it seemed like you were trying to take a look at something.”
Unable to resist, I stand and take a step closer to her. Her chest is rising up and down with her quick, short breaths. Her full lips are slightly parted. Practically begging to be kissed. By me.
I blink. Where did that thought come from?
Samantha has been a pain in my ass almost from our first day of high school. Kissing her has to be the last thing in the world I should do.
But—as my dad has so generously pointed out over and over again—I don’t always do what’s in my best interest.
And right now, I’d like to take another step toward Samantha. Then tug her into my arms to see if those lips of hers taste as good as I’ve always suspected.
“Zachary,” a familiar voice booms, making us both jump.
I groan inwardly as my dear old dad saunters into the gymnasium like he owns the place. I guess making the donation to resurface the floors and replace the bleachers gives a man that impression. Still, I wish he wasn’t here.
“Dad.” I try my best to keep my voice calm, even as I feel the heat of Samantha’s stare on the back of my neck.
Great. She probably thinks I invited him here. She always assumed I was the one asking for my dad’s involvement—and interference—in everything. Like I had a choice.
I open and close my hands in fists at my side. “Dad, you remember—”
“Samantha Wingfield, of course.” He takes her hand. Instead of giving it a shake, he raises it to his lips. “The woman who always gave you a run for your money. I read a piece about you in Forbes just last month.”
Her cheeks flush again, and I’m struck by an instant, and almost overwhelming urge, to shove my old man away.
Giving his charming smile, my dad lowers her hand but keeps it clasped in his. “Is my son pulling his weight or is he getting in your way?”
She gives a light laugh, before assuring him I’ve been helpful. I frown. She never laughs at me like that. And… is her voice flirty? Is it possible she’s actually buying my dad’s bullshit act?
