Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 111980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 560(@200wpm)___ 448(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 560(@200wpm)___ 448(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
“Wait a second. Aren’t you going to help her?” Zuri asks, striding around the corner and giving him a pointed look.
Sawyer furrows his brow. “I thought you said you wanted to help.”
She flubs her lips. “Not with painting. I’m too old for that. And besides, Levi and I were just saying you’d probably want to do it.”
He looks baffled. “You thought I’d want to paint? I have to finish my morning calls to the other locations.”
Zuri’s smile is pure calculation. “I can do that for you. I’ll let you know if anything comes up that requires an executive. And of course I can handle the dogs, and Levi’s got the grooming covered.”
Over by the bathtubs, the tattooed guy with an undercut turns away from the Husky he’s shampooing and pumps a fist. “Yay, the boss is going to paint!”
I snort-laugh as Sawyer glances down at his outfit—tailored slacks, a checked button-down, and a tie. “I guess you’re dressed as Mister Serious Boss today,” I say, then whisper, “but it’s okay if you’re not handy.”
And just like that, he’s undoing his tie, and striding around the counter to help.
Score one for the stalker. Bonus points for the employees knocking the boss down a peg.
* * *
“Funny, I didn’t think you’d be good at this,” I say after Sawyer finishes rolling the last stripe of pink on the east-facing wall. He’s been in here four hours with me, prepping, painting, and pretending not to check me out. Or maybe that’s just what I’ve been doing with him.
He shoots me a look. “And why’s that?”
“Oh, because you seem like someone who prefers the efficiency of hiring out for manual labor rather than rolling up your sleeves. Major upper-management vibes,” I remark.
“Guess you’re wrong. These sleeves are rolled up.” He nods to the cuffs, and damn, that’s stupidly attractive too. Because his forearms are on display. He unknotted his tie as well, and tossed it behind the counter at Dog Tails. And yes, he looked unfairly hot doing it. But the best way to deal with all this infuriating attraction to a man who once thought I was stalking him is to ignore it completely.
I glance away so it’s not obvious I’m into forearms. “I’m just saying—I’m shocked.”
“Be prepared to be more shocked then. Because I am all kinds of capable,” he says as he puts the roller down.
With a small angled brush I fill in around the trim, glancing in the window to catch sight of Captain playing rope toy tug-of-war with a Chihuahua.
“Pretty sure you’re the only person who paints in a nice shirt,” I say, eyeing his checked button-down.
He gestures triumphantly toward the shirt he’s wearing. “Proof I’m handy. I didn’t get paint on it.”
“Oh, those are fighting words,” I say, waggling the paintbrush.
He rolls his eyes. “Oh, we’re doing that?”
I step closer, even though I’m not in getting-paint-on-him territory. “Maybe. You afraid?”
“Do I look scared?”
“A little,” I taunt, inching closer, maybe a foot away now. I brandish the brush again.
He sighs like this is all too much for him. “You gonna come for me, Chloe?”
I stop.
He freezes. He must hear it at the same moment I do. The accidental innuendo.
I clear my throat. “Nah. Your shirt is safe for now,” I say, then spin around, suddenly hot under my shirt.
I dip my brush again, hyper-focused on the next wall I need to work on.
With supreme focus too, he dips a new roller into the tray of white paint.
I brush the corners. He tackles another coat near the floorboards. I stop for a second, fanning myself. It is hot in here. It’s late June after all, and the windows are open so we can get some air on the paint. When I return to my work, he’s a few feet away, rolling with intense diligence. After a few minutes, he exhales, mutters something under his breath, and sets his roller down.
“Fuck it,” he says, then lifts his hand to the first button of his shirt.
Oh.
Ohhh.
There goes the second.
I’m totally not watching. I swear I’m not. Except my eyes are glued to every movement as he unbuttons all the way, taking it off. He’s down to a white undershirt, and it is tight.
It hugs his chest, clings to his biceps, and outlines his abs in ways that make me forget what I was doing. It’s like suit-hot and handy-hot had a baby, and it was this moment.
He bends—slowly—and slides his roller through the white paint. Smooth and steady. It’s basically foreplay with paint supplies.
Does he know? Is he putting on a show for me?
I swallow roughly as I work. When it’s time for me to paint the highest corner, I reach for the step stool I brought in, but he’s already striding over, palm out. “Let me help.”
Three little words that do something inconvenient to my insides. August was never a helper. He was a taker.