Page 24 of His Build
She laughed. “I happen to love paperwork. But it helps if you’re the type who’s gets excited about organization and planning.”
“Not my strongest suits. Although I’ve had to learn to get by to run this business.”
She smiled, then considered him for a minute, as if debating something.
“What?” he asked.
“Well, I wasn’t planning on doing this for a couple weeks, but one of the fun parts is going to be ordering the furniture. I’m doing some online, but I was thinking about picking up as much as I can around here—I’m going for a sixties vibe and could use some local expertise to help me figure out where the best antique shops are.”
Normally shopping for furniture was near the bottom of anything he’d be remotely interested in. He couldn’t remember the last thing he’d bought—did a pack of light bulbs count? But at this moment he couldn’t think of anything he’d like to do more.
“I do know all the best spots,” he said, with a conspiratorial wink. “From passing them on the highway.”
She laughed again and that feeling in his chest came back: the warm unravelling that was as comfortable as it was terrifying.
“How about tomorrow? Pick me up at eight?”
“It’s a date,” Graydon said. The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them, and he felt heat rise in his cheeks. But his mouth kept going. “Not like, a date, but like…” He cleared his throat. “I’ll see you then. I could do some tidying up here, anyway.”
Graydon kept a spotless job site and there wasn’t any garbage to speak of. But he had made things just about as awkward as they possibly could be, and he didn’t know how to get himself out of it except to retreat.
Lucy's eyebrows bunched ever so slightly. “Bye, Graydon,” she said finally, giving a little wave. Then she walked up the path.
A date? What the hell was he thinking? He was practically allergic to the word date. He avoided it even in completely innocuous business settings.
He tried to look away as she went up the path, pretending to busy himself with working on some invisible mess down here by the boathouse. But it was hopeless. His eyes were drawn to her like a magnet; to the curve of her shoulders, the splay of red hair against her shoulders. The way her pants hugged her hips. That heat came back in his jeans. He thanked god she was walking away. He’d never had such a reaction to a woman, at least not since he was a gawky teenager.
And now he’d have to spend a whole day in the car with her.
Despite himself, he broke out in a goofy grin.
9
Lucy woke at six the next morning, with the sun streaming in the sliding glass doors of her room and a warm, liquid honey feeling down low in her body. Her skin tingled all over and the soft spot between her legs was pulsing with heat, the source of the sensations through the rest of her body.
She’d been dreaming of Graydon.
The dream was so fresh it was still etched in her mind as clear as a film reel.
He had been standing in the back of the truck where she’d first seen him. He lifted his shirt up to wipe his brow, just like that first time. But this time he wasn’t squinting in the sun; he was staring right at her. And instead of stopping at wiping his sweat away, he’d peeled the thin cotton shirt over his head, tossing it aside. The sun made his body glow, and everything else seemed to fall away as he reached down and unbuttoned his jeans with an agonizing slowness. His eyes didn’t leave hers as he slipped them down over his hips. When his cock had popped out—firm and thick—she’d gasped.
Then she’d hit the truck in front of her, her eyes springing open to the log walls of the motel room.
She lay there languorously for a moment, considering bringing herself to climax. It would probably only take a few seconds given how close just dreaming of him had made her. But instead she pushed herself out of bed. No need to indulge—Graydon was a work mate, that was all.
After she brewed a little cup of coffee from the tiny coffeemaker in the corner of the room, she wrapped the terrycloth robe around herself and stepped out onto the little balcony. Fresh air would clear her head.
She had started this ritual her second or third day at the motel, and it was a gorgeous way to start the day. She sat down in one of two wood Adirondack chairs, painted red to match the trimmings in the room, and took in the diamond sparkles of the sun on the lake through the trees in front of her. This place really was glorious. Night and day to her view from the fire escape at her place in the city—the closest thing she had to a balcony there. At home, she would be breathing in the smell of trash and delivery truck exhaust from the back alley, instead of the sweet scent of earthy trees and spring flowers and the breeze off the lake. At home she’d be setting up her work day, calculating subway times and booking meetings around her clients’ schedules.
Working remotely had been going surprisingly well—her clients could sneak in meetings on the fly when they didn’t have to meet her somewhere. She’d talked to clients from their conference rooms and cafeterias; over the phone as they walked to and from meetings. She had started up her blog again, but was restricting herself to weekly posts instead of daily to maintain her semi-hiatus status.
Maybe she could find a way to move out here. It was possible, career-wise. But what about the other things she loved? How would she keep herself busy as a single, independent woman up here without her trips to the theatre and restaurant dinners?
Maybe you wouldn’t have to be single.
The thought was such a strange one for her, she almost choked on her coffee.
Don’t be ridiculous.
