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Cassidy
I glide the digitalpen over my tablet, aiming to create a more wistful look to the ‘Y’ inyoufor theThank Youcard I’m working on—until Frankie nudges my hand and forces the pen off the screen.
I sigh as he stares at me with those big puppy dog eyes. “Frankie…”
He nudges my hand again.
“Fine.” I give in, setting my tablet to the side and giving him long body pets. He stretches and flops on his back beside me for his desired belly rubs. I continue petting him, leaning my head back against the cushioned patio loveseat I splurged on last spring. It’s my favorite spot to brainstorm and work on my cards when the weather is nice.
I yawn, checking the time on my phone and wondering what I should do for dinner tonight. Part of me doesn’t want to bothermaking anything for just me—a package of Pop-Tarts will serve the same purpose. It’s not like I have anyone to cook for or enjoy it with.
Not since Dad passed and Garrett left me here all alone.
I take a deep breath, my eyes burning as I fight the emotion welling to the surface. Frankie flips over, his ears perking as he sits up beside me. Reaching for my tablet to clear my head with some art therapy, I sniffle. “What is it, Frankster, you hear the chipmunk under the porch again?”
The distinct rumble of a truck pulling in has my head lifting and my gaze locking with the last person I expected to see.
Frankie yips and hops down, his whole body wiggles with excitement as Butch gets out and slams his truck door behind him. He grabs something from the back before making his way toward me.
He sets a bag on the bottom step. “How’s it goin’?”
“Good.” I set my tablet off to the side and unfold my legs from under me. The oversized, baggie T-shirt and athletic shorts I’m wearing shows I’ve been home for hours being lazy, meanwhile Butch is dressed exactly how I saw him this morning. Except now he’s covered in sweat and sawdust with a hefty amount of dirt sticking to his brow.
He looks like he just got done with a hard day’s work, and…he chose to come here?
“Did we—”
“Ready to tackle that list of yours?” he asks.
I pause on the top step, gazing at him with a mixture of confusion and uncertainty. Is he serious? We only just spoke—barely—about my list of things I need to do around herethismorning. And now he’s here? For me?
Butterflies flutter low in my belly and I can’t help the smile stretching my face. “Really?”
He opens his arms wide. “I’m all yours.”
I fight the urge to launch myself into those very arms and settle for a giddy bounce that brings a wide, devastatingly handsome smile to his face. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Butch in the last few weeks; when he says something, he means it.
Hands on my hips, I squint up into the sun, trying to make out the broad form standing on the roof of my trailer.
“Heads up,” he hollers, tossing the flimsy plywood piece into the yard beside me. Frankie immediately hobbles down the steps to investigate, sniffing around. He’s been just as enamored with the process as I have.
Butch starts to make his way back down the ladder. “All set up here,” he tells me, tossing an empty can of roof sealant into the garbage bin.
I gnaw on my bottom lip as I watch the shirtless, tatted mountain man break down the ladder he brought and toss it back into the bed of his truck. The sun is out and it’s warm—likely hot up there on the roof. Hot enough for the delicious tan of Butch’s skin to be rippled with sweat in every thick carve of muscle he has. He’s practically shimmering like a mountain god in the setting sun.
I shift on my bare feet in the grass, ogling his tight ass in those Carhartts as he throws his shirt back on and bends down to pick up the tool bag he dropped by the porch. He turns to look at me and my stomach flops. He runs one of those big hands over his sweaty forehead and into his hair, slicking it back and making it look even darker.
“Let’s have a look at that ceiling,” he says.
All I do is stare. He’s so…sexy.
He’s a mountain of sex appeal and I want nothing more than to climb him in this moment.
He raises a brow at me, the very corner of his lip lifting at my obvious objectifying of him. My cheeks heat and I shake off whatever mountain trance he just put me in and hop up the steps. “What, um—oh, are you thirsty?” I ramble as I open the door.
“A drink would be nice,” he grunts, kicking off his boots at the door.
Frankie waddles into the cool living room, heading straight for his spot on the couch.
