Totally Inevitable Intent

  “Hold up.” He raises a hand. “What counters do you want? Some finishes go better with cream or a light gray than with white.”

  Damn. I know I’m the “novice” here, but I can typically hold my own when it comes to design. I’m not used to being corrected, but I have to admit he raises an excellent point. “Okay, paint color to be determined, but it’ll be the same throughout. When do we pick counters?”

  “Whenever you’re ready.”

  “Okay. Lowes has this really great—”

  “Stop,” he interrupts. “You are not getting your countertops from Lowes.”

  “Why not? They have great stuff."

  “They do,” he agrees. “But my contractor’s license gives me access to buy things straight from the manufacturer’s showroom where it’s cheaper.”

  “Ooh,” I exclaim. “I like your idea better.”

  “I thought you might.” He smirks.

  We make plans to go materials shopping the following weekend, because a contractor has to accompany me to the store. We get back to work in comfortable silence, which gives me the opportunity to observe Anthony in his element.

  He seems at peace tearing down walls and pulling up tile. The muscles in his arms ripple as he works, a thin sheen of sweat glistening over them in the light. His movements are fluid, almost graceful despite their rigor. Catlike. Yes, that’s it. He’s long and lean but well-muscled, elegant in his movements. Like a cat.

  As the day wears on, his shirt starts to stick to his back, and I see those muscles flexing, too. There’s something so enticing about the way a man’s shirt hugs the muscles of his chest and back but swings loose against his lean torso. If Anthony looks this heavenly with his shirt on, I can’t imagine what he’d look like with it off. But that doesn’t stop me trying.

  Most of the time we work side by side, and in those moments I feel a hum of electricity between us. I’m keenly aware of every movement he makes, from the casual way he brushes sweat off his brow to the shallow breaths he takes whenever he pauses to inspect our progress. That awareness has me a little on edge, especially because I suspect he’s just as aware of my every move as I am of his.

  When I stop to stretch or take a drink of water he tenses, then tackles his work with renewed focus. When I grunt or gasp for breath, he holds his own and looks anywhere but in my direction. And when I have trouble removing a particularly stubborn piece of tile, he steps behind me to help pull it loose, his chest brushing up against my back, his hips mere inches from my ass. For a moment we both stand utterly still, right before he swallows and steps away.

  Yeah, there’s some sort of invisible tether between us, and it has me feeling as giddy as a teenager. Hell, I had been a teenager the last time I felt anything like this, and since I never expected to feel tension like this again, there's no denying I enjoy it immensely. There’s a big part of me that wants to give in to this feeling, to turn around and press my lips to Anthony’s and feel the heat and the high that only insatiable desire can offer. But his constant one-step-forward-two-steps-back act is a clear warning that he won’t react well to such an impulse, so I suffer silently.

  Anthony has an internal battle going on, and forcing his hand will not have the desired effect. It’s exactly what I went through with Colt.

  Colt did the whole one-step-forward-two-back thing while we were married. In his case, he would either be totally absent or overly present, depending on how much guilt he had over acting selfishly. I would watch that internal struggle play out in the emotions that crossed his face almost nightly toward the end, and trying to sway him one way or the other was the surest way to push him further out of reach. I don’t know exactly what battle is playing out in Anthony’s mind, but I recognize he’s having one, and I know it somehow involves me. Thus, planting a kiss on him is a bad idea, right now anyway.

  Until he’s not afraid of this thing between us, I’ll just have to chip away at the layers surrounding him, just as we’re carefully chipping away the layers of the kitchen.

  After inspecting the cabinets, Anthony deems them solid enough to keep, provided we can remove the existing countertops without damage. That’s easier said than done. The work is painstakingly slow. Too much force, the tiniest little crack, and the entire room would need to be replaced.

  It takes hours, but by the time we’re done, we have a bank of cabinets that have survived demolition and will be just perfect with a fresh coat of paint. Between the savings from the cabinets, and the luck of not running into a load-bearing wall, I am sitting at about $15K under budget, which makes me feel pretty good about my decision to try house flipping.

  After we carefully remove what we don’t need in the kitchen, we move on to the bathrooms, where we get to smash everything in sight. Smashing a wall is one thing, the drywall crumbles with a soft thud, but you have to hit it over and over again to see any results. Cabinets, on the other hand, they disintegrate with a satisfying crack, in just a few swings. It makes me feel powerful.

  Anthony hands me the sledgehammer, and I let it sway a bit to wind up as I rock back and forth then swing with all my might at the base of the cabinet. The front door splinters and comes off the hinges as I pull back, but before I can take another swing, I hear a low whistle from behind me.

  “Impressive.”

  “So now you’re on board with the pink? Maybe I’ve even earned a pink sledgehammer?” I tease.

  He chuckles. “Yeah, I supposed you did.”

  I smile to myself. I’ve always tried to keep in shape, and I’m pretty strong (not just for a girl, either), but I rarely get the opportunity to use that strength for anything other than lifting weights. Demo gives me the opportunity to move, to really use my muscles and see the results of that effort. I love it! And while I don’t exactly need Anthony’s approval, it’s nice to have it all the same.

  “This isn’t my first time with a sledgehammer, either, you know.” I smile.

  “Figured that.” He strokes his chin. “I appreciate you not yelling at me for assuming it was.”

  “I nearly did, but I told you I’d stop doing that, and I’m a woman of my word.” I take another swing, this time taking the base out completely.

  “Did you do this at your own house?” he asks.

  “No, my dad was a handyman, and when my parents didn’t know what else to do with me, he’d take me to work with him.”

  “You were a handful,” he assumes, but this time I don’t take offense.

  “I’d say inquisitive.” I stretch my arms, which are feeling the aftereffects of swinging the sledgehammer. “Mom sometimes needed a break from all my questions.”

  “Working with your dad is where you got the idea to do a flip?”

  “No, working with my dad gave me the skills to take care of a house by myself. Well, that and YouTube.”

  “YouTube?”

  “Sure, you can learn just about anything on there.”

  “I doubt that.” He coughs under his breath.

  “So far on YouTube, I’ve learned how to fix a burned heating element in my dryer, clean my tankless water heater, and fix my fridge so it doesn’t leak all over the floor and warp the wood,” I say proudly. “That one would have cost hundreds for someone to come fix, but I did it for two dollars.”

  “There is no part for a fridge that costs only two dollars.” He shakes his head as he takes a knife to the tub to start cutting away the grout.

  “I didn’t say I replaced a part.” I smirk.

  After a brief silence, he finally caves. “Care to elaborate?”

  “The evaporator drain hole was icing over so water would get trapped under the crisper drawer, and eventually it turned to a big sheet of ice, and then water started leaking out of the fridge. By wrapping copper wire around the evaporator coil, it keeps the drain from icing up. Two dollars.”

  “And you got that off YouTube?” He arches a brow.

  “Yep. I use that for repairs I haven’t seen or done before. But stuff like sa
nding and staining, fixing cabinets, even a little bit of plumbing, I learned from my dad.”

  “Well, if he didn’t get you started on flipping, what did?” He appraises me.

  “Working on my own house mostly. Helping out Lisa with hers. I learned a lot of hacks to make improvements on a budget. Most of them aren’t that difficult, so when the opportunity came up, I figured it would be a good investment.”

  He seems to consider this as he slices through the stubborn grout. Then he turns to me, eyes searching my face. “If you wanted an investment, why didn’t you pick stocks or something?”

  I’m tempted to be defensive, because I’ve heard that question too many times before. But he’s not asking with a tinge of sarcasm the way everyone else has. He genuinely wants to understand why I went this route.

  “I didn’t want to invest in something I don’t understand, and the market isn’t something I’ve ever been interested in. Besides, this way I feel like I have a little control, like the improvements I make can dictate my returns, and with stocks I wouldn’t really have any control over their performance. I only have control over that initial choice of which ones to buy. I’m more hands on than that, I guess.”

  Anthony nods in acknowledgement then starts picking up debris. Evidently, we’re done sharing.

  We work in silence a bit longer until there’s nothing left to demolish and it’s time to clean up. Demo is oddly satisfying; however, carrying the debris to the dumpster is grueling, and by the end of the day I’m sweaty, sore, and starving. I’m also weary to my bones, which is probably the reason behind my carelessness.

  I know how dangerous tools can be, but in the process of picking them up, I grab the knife Anthony used to cut through some of the stubborn grout, neglecting to fold the blade away. With my arms full of tools and the knife in my hand, I round the corner to the kitchen, bumping right into Anthony, who is heading back to collect more trash. Before I know it, I’m falling, the tools clattering to the floor around me, probably gouging them in the process. But none of that registers as I stare at the spot of blood pooling on Anthony’s shirt.

  “Jen, are you okay?” he asks as he crouches down.

  I point to his shirt. “You’re bleeding!”

  “Jen, are you okay?” he repeats.

  “Fine! I’m fine. You’re not.” I point at him again, and he finally looks down to see the blood.

  “Shit,” he grunts, pulling his shirt over his head to get a better look, and while I know my timing is horrible, I absolutely notice that he’s just as incredible with his shirt off as I suspected he would be. He twists to get a better look at the cut resting just above his hip, the muscles in his taut stomach flexing as he rotates. His fingers probe the area as I stare, mortified at what I’ve done. But I’m not just mortified, I’m slightly turned on by his bare chest. What is wrong with me?

  “Let me.” I finally stop ogling and lean forward to inspect the cut. “It’s bleeding like mad. I can’t tell how bad it is.” I wince.

  “There’s a first-aid kit in my tool bag. I should have some gauze in there.”

  I rummage around until I find a pack of gauze and open it, pressing it gingerly to the cut. He flinches almost imperceptibly but doesn’t complain. When I’ve removed enough blood to see clearly, I assess the damage I’ve inflicted.

  “It’s about an inch long, not terribly deep, so I don’t think it needs stitches, maybe just a butterfly bandage if you have one, but you might need a tetanus shot.”

  “Why? What cut me?”

  I find the knife on the floor and hold it out to him. “This, I think. I forgot to close the blade.”

  He takes it and inspects the knife. “Hmm.” He turns it over, wipes it on his pant leg, and folds it shut. I can’t meet his eyes, not after being so careless, so I dig into the first-aid kit and pull out the bandage I need along with a sterile wipe.

  “My nursing skills are usually limited to kissing boo boos and slapping on a Band-Aid, but I can clean this a bit and bandage it to help with the bleeding. Then we should get you to the doctor for a shot.” I fumble with the sterile wipe until he sets his hand on mine and takes the package from me.

  “I’m current on my shots.” He opens the package and hands the wipe back to me. “As long as it doesn’t need stitches, I’ll be fine.”

  I nod, still without meeting his eyes, and bend to clean the cut. As gently as possible, I dab the wipe along his torso and over the wound, keenly aware of how the planes of his stomach rise and fall with each breath, how warm his skin is under my fingertips. I put ointment on a Q-Tip and gently brush that over the cut, careful not to have any contact with the skin I just sterilized. I put a bandage over the cut then cover it with a gauze pad and tape that to his side.

  I can feel Anthony’s eyes on me the whole time, and I somehow manage to complete the process without causing more damage. However, as soon as I’m done, the adrenaline catches up to me, and I feel my hands start to shake. My carelessness injured him, and its sheer luck that he’ll walk away with only a cut instead of something worse.

  Dammit, what made me think I could do this? How could I let myself think that my DIY hobby qualifies me to do the work Anthony does for a living? I busy myself gathering the trash to give my hands something to do but stop when Anthony’s fingertips brush the underside of my chin.

  “It was an accident,” he says as he pulls my chin up, forcing me to look at him.

  “You got hurt because of me,” I whisper.

  “I’m not blaming you.”

  “It was careless.” I start to shake my head, but he holds firm and stares straight into my eyes with more than just kindness. Understanding.

  “Yeah, and we’ve all made careless mistakes before. Doesn’t mean we don’t belong here.” His thumb brushes across my cheek, and I go completely still, mesmerized, both from his touch and his words. How did he know that’s exactly what I needed to hear?

  His face is mere inches from mine, his thumb stroking my cheek, and our eyes are locked on one another. The only sound is our breathing, which comes in ragged gasps. My mouth is slightly open, ready to feel his lips on mine, but I don’t make the first move. I wait, staring into those black eyes that look at me with both fear and longing. He holds my gaze, conflicted, then slowly drops his hand and looks to the floor.

  “Sure a kiss won’t make it better?” I tease, picking up the tools I dropped. “It works wonders for the second graders.” I’m not sure what just passed between us, but damn if I’m going to let him pretend it didn’t happen.

  His expression is unreadable. Distant. “Been a long time since that worked.” He almost smiles. “I’m going to finish cleaning up.”

  He stands up almost gingerly and grabs his tool bag.

  “Are you sure you should be lifting that?” I ask.

  “I’m good,” he grunts and makes his way out the door, leaving me to wonder if I’ll ever be able to break through the walls he’s erected.

  Chapter 8

  Anthony

  I get home and head straight for the kitchen, trying in vain to find something to take my mind off Jen. Dinner. I rummage through the cupboards looking for ideas, not really seeing what’s in them.

  Holy shit, I nearly kissed her. Sure, I’ve thought about doing just that dozens of times since we met, how soft and sweet her lips would feel, what she would taste like, though I’ve never been so close to actually doing it. But the urge hit me out of nowhere when I looked into her eyes, and I’m still not totally sure how I didn’t give in to it. It’s a good thing I didn’t, though, because I have a feeling if my lips ever meet hers, my cock will want to find its way inside her, and if that happens, I’m not entirely sure I can walk away from her.

  I can’t believe I was so careless. I kept her at arms’ length almost the entire day, having just enough conversation to be polite without seeming too interested, I think. But then I realized talking made me look at Jen the way I’d always looked at Katie, with a mixture of genuine in
terest and lust. Lusting after Jen is bad enough, but liking her, enjoying her company? I can't cross that line.

  My conflicting emotions aside, the woman knows her stuff, and she has no reason to doubt her ability or her place the way she did after accidentally cutting me. I could tell that’s where her mind was going, and I couldn’t be responsible for that. So I made her look me in the eye and told her she belonged. I didn’t realize until it was too late how close we were, how intimate it was to be staring into each other’s eyes. I also didn’t notice I’d been stroking her cheek, until the softness of her skin on my fingertips hit me full force. I can’t remember wanting anything as bad as I wanted to kiss her in that moment, and thank God some part of my brain was still working and I snapped out of it, or I would have. But that isn’t even the worst part. The worst part is I know she wanted me to kiss her.

  The way she looked at me, desire in her eyes, lips slightly parted, she wanted that kiss as bad as I did. I’m still not sure why she didn’t make the first move. It’s not like my girl is shy, and I’m pretty sure if she made the first move there’s no way I would have… Wait. My girl.

  I just thought of Jen as my girl. Where the hell did that come from? I have no claim on Jen. I don’t want one. I mean, yes, we have a number of things in common, and there’s a definite attraction between us that’s getting harder and harder to ignore, but none of that makes her my girl. None of that makes her anything more than my client. Shit. I need a drink.

  I turn to reach for a glass and wince. “What’s wrong, Pop?” Wes chooses that moment to make an appearance. “You look like you took a beating today.”

  “Just a small cut. It’s no big deal,” I say.

  “You’re moving like it’s a big deal,” he observes. Who am I kidding? Wes is too smart to buy my excuses.

  “Okay, it’s a decent cut, but it’s cleaned and bandaged, so still no big deal. It’ll just be tender for a few days.”