“The Lyme,” I answered. “It’s pretty much always the fucking Lyme.”
“Except when it’s the other tick thing,” he retorted.
“Except then,” I confirmed.
“What size shoes do you wear?” he asked me.
“Uh, thirteen?”
Elliot grunted. “I don’t suppose you’re going to want to squeeze them into eleven-and-a-halfs?”
“No, thanks.” I grimaced. The thought of squishing my feet into shoes a size and a half too small was not appealing.
“Then we’ll have to be extra careful of your feet,” he replied.
“Why?”
“Steel-toed work boots are always a good idea when you’re maneuvering heavy lumber,” came the reply. “But I’m guessing you’re not going to want to drop a hundred or two on good boots.”
I snorted. “I’ve never spent more than like forty bucks on shoes in my life.”
“So we have to be careful of your feet, then,” he repeated. “I have an old pair, but your giant feet apparently won’t fit in them.”
“They won’t,” I agreed. “What are we building?”
“Go put on some sort of shoes, and I’ll show you.”
The answer was raisedgarden beds. The heavy objects were the railroad ties that Elliot was using as the base level, and they were fuckingheavy.
“Do you need these things to withstand being hit by a truck?” I grumbled as we maneuvered the fourth tie into place. Moving them into position was hard work. Especially for me, because I was clearly out of condition. I hadn’t been getting as much exercise as I had been before I’d contracted Arcana, and since I no longer was slinging bodies around for a living, I’d lost some of the muscle I used to have.
Elliot laughed. At least he was sweating almost as much as I was.
And Elliot sweaty was hot, in more ways than one.
He was wearing another stained t-shirt, this one heather grey with a Packers logo, and his ripped jeans. His forearms and biceps bulged as he lifted, those rough hands of his covered by heavy work gloves. He’d given me a pair, as well, and I was grateful to not have splinters or cuts, even though my hands were aching from the work even with the gloves.
I definitely didn’t have thick, corded arms or pecs that looked like they were trying to escape my t-shirt. I just had my slightly-too-big UVA shirt—one of several—hanging awkwardly from a body that was both too soft and too thin for its size and wear. I also had on jeans, but mine hadn’t been ripped when we started. They were now. At least I’d intentionally worn the ones that had the most wear on them, because I figured they were going to get filthy at the very least, if not ripped and stained to boot.
We weren’t just building boxes—we were replacing them. Which meant that we’d already ripped out the old ones. They weren’t as big as Elliot wanted them, the dirt needed to be cycled and fertilized with what smelled like literal cow shit and rotting vegetables, and he wanted to reconfigure the yard.
So first we’d pulled out twelve boxes, which was when I’d snagged my jeans on a nail and ripped them. I’d also snagged myself on the same nail, which had led to an argument about whether or not I needed to go get a tetanus shot. I’d won the argument by pointing out that milk proteins were used as stabilizers in tetanus vaccines, so getting one would definitely kill me.
I had let him pour alcohol on it, gritting my teeth against the sting.
We weren’t going to finish the beds today—that had become clear to me the minute I’d realized we had to tear apart the old ones, shovel the dirt into the compost bins, put the wood somewhere to dry so he could burn it later, and put bulbs and any living plants into buckets or pots for temporary storage until we got the beds rebuilt.
Well, half the beds.
The other half were apparently on the list for fall, once the plants in them went dormant or died for the winter. Like the tomatoes and cucumbers and squash.
There were four total beds. We’d laid out the ties for one.
By the time we finished the last one, my stomach was growling, I was covered in sweat and mud and God-knew what else, and I was horny as fuck from watching Elliot squatting and lifting and sweating, catching glimpses of his rippled stomach when he used his t-shirt to wipe sweat off his face, and generally being in close proximity to his body, smelling his sweat.
It had me on edge, both in sexual terms and in shifter terms.
I tried to convince myself that it was good for me—practicing keeping control over my wolf-self. Mostly it had just driven me crazy, distracting me so that I did stupid shit like tripping over my own feet and dropping tools.
