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I’m tired of getting laughed at when I haven’t said anything funny. Plus, I’m surviving on way too little sleep, and flustered, too. It’s not easy to see an ex looking this good. “You know, since I’m in town to set you up on a couple dates, it’d be helpful if you mentioned your girlfriend.”
Oops. That came out a little blunt. Parker didn’t ask me to come here and meddle in his love life. But it’s too late to take it back.
“Veronica? My girlfriend? Who told you that?”
“I had a talk with the town vet.”
He heaves the barbell off the rack, presses it up toward the ceiling, then sets it down. Just watching him makes my arm muscles feel sore.
As I near his workout bench, I take in the fact that he’s once again shirtless. He’s also sweating.
The best thing to do, I think, when you’re confronted with a situation that has to do with a sweaty, attractive man you used to be in love with, is to look away.
So, that’s what I do.
I study the hand tools hanging from a corkboard on my right. I don’t know what half of them are, and I don’t really care to find out. All I need is something to look at —anything— besides the way that balanced-scale tattoo on Parker’s shoulder and pec ripples as six different muscles pop out under it when he lifts the weight.
Not to mention the fact that his abs are as hard as always, with the same lower v-cut that disappears under the band of his sweatpants. Those v-shaped muscles always used to make me swoon and apparently, they still do. My knees feel weak, I’m lightheaded, and my whole body feels limp and a few degrees too hot, given the actual brisk temperature of this unheated garage.
My eyes wander back over that way when I hear him huff out another burst of air—because I better make sure he’s alive, at least, not getting strangled for stupidly trying to lift too much weight without a spotter in sight.
Bad idea! Bad idea!
He’s still got the barbell up, and now his shoulders are bulging and his arm muscles are twitching, and I can see the tattoo of a mountain that winds around his obliques.
A flash of heat sparks through me and I stuff it way, way down and whip my head back toward the cork board.
Safer—much safer—to look at this silver hand tool here and wonder if it’s a wrench or a ratchet.
The poppy electronic dance music he’s playing fills the garage. At least I can be grateful for that. Besides getting in my catty comment about his love life, I have no reason to stay out here. It’s not like we’re going to have a conversation. I should head inside.
I hear the barbell clank as it settles back into the rack. Then, before I manage to take a step toward the door, Parker’s next to me, scrubbing a towel over his face. He’s pulled a t-shirt on, thank goodness.
He drapes the towel around his neck and gives me a smile. “The town vet, eh?”
Then he reaches for me.
Is this it?
Is he about to kiss me, because he simply can’t resist? Is he going to sweep me up into his arms and kiss me, right here in this sweaty, loud garage?
Nope. He’s reaching for the stereo that’s sitting on the tool shelf. He twists the volume down and then grabs for his water bottle, also on the shelf.
He takes a swig of water and then chuckles again.
“Okay… what?” I ask. “If there’s a joke here, I’m not getting it.”
“That was Annie. She’s not the town vet. Never was, never will be.”
“Oh.”
“She’s a retired high school English teacher. Leads the local drama club these days. Loves to put on an act, especially for tourists. Let me guess… She fed you a story about how poor Big Ed died of a brain clot during a terrible rainstorm, and now he haunts the bar. And then she tried to get you to buy her a Long Trail Ale.”
“Er… close. Ruptured Spleen. Blizzard. And she wanted the Limbo IPA.”
He smiles, shakes his head, and helps himself to more water.
I takea step toward the door that leads into the house. “I’m heading in. See you later.” “Before you go, I have to show you something.” He turns and grabs a sweatshirt. He pulls it over his head as he walks for the bay door and ducks under it. “Come on, Gem. You’re gonna like this.”
